UNDER    FIRE 


All  rights  rcstrved 


UNDER    FIRE 


THE   STORY   OF   A   SQUAD 


BY 


HENRI    BARBUSSE 


TRANSLATED    BY 

FITZ  WATER   WRAY 


MCMXVII 

LONDON    y   TORONTO 
J.  M.  DENT   fcf   SONS   LTD. 
PARIS:    J.    M.    DENT    fcf    FILS 


First  published  in  French^  December  1916. 
First  issue  of  this  authorised  translation, 

June  1917. 
Reprinted  Aiigust  1917. 


TO 
THE   MEMORY   OF 

THE   COMRADES  WHO   FELL  BY  MY  SIDE 
AT   CROUY  AND    ON   HILL   119 

JANUARY,    MAY,    AND    SEPTEMBER    1915 


i 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  THE   VISION        ......             I 

II.  IN   THE    EARTH              .....             5 

III.  THE    RETURN     .             .             .  .             .             .46 

IV.  VOLPATTE   AND    FOUILLADE  .             .                       51 
V.  SANCTUARY         ......          59 

VI.  HABITS     .......          84 

VII.  ENTRAINING       ......          89 

VIII.  ON    LEAVE            ......          98 

IX.  THE   ANGER    OF   VOLPATTE  .             .             .             .107 

X.  ARGOVAL               .             .             .             .             .             .127 

XI.  THE   DOG              .             .             .             .             .             .130 

XII.  THE   DOORWAY                .             .             .             .             .144 

XIII.  THE   BIG   WORDS           .  .             .             .             .167 

XIV.  OF   BURDENS      .             .  .             .             .             .169 

XV.  THE    EGG              .             .             .             .             .             .187 

XVI.  AN    IDYLL             .             .             .             .             .             .       IQO 

XVII.  IN   THE   SAP        ......       195 

XVIII.  A    BOX    OF    MATCHES  .             ,             .             .             -199 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XIX.  BOMBARDMENT              .....       205 

XX.  UNDER    FIRE      .              .              .             .             .             .221 

XXI.  THE   REFUGE     .             .             .             .             .             •       2?5 

XXII.  GOING   ABOUT   ......       294 

XXIII.  THE   FATIGUE-PARTY  ....       302 

XXIV.  THE   DAWN         .  .  .  .  .  -319 


UNDER    FIRE 


THE  VISION 

MON-I  BLA.\C,  the  Dent  du  Midi,  and  the  Aiguille  Verte 
look  across  at  the  bloodless  faces  that  show  above  the  blankets 
along  the  gallery  of  the  sanatorium.  This  roofed-in 
gallery  of  rustic  wood-work  on  the  first  floor  of  the  palatial 
hospital  is  isolated  in  Space  and  overlooks  the  world. 
The  blankets  of  fine  wool—red,  green,  brown,  or  white — 
from  which  those  wasted  cheeks  and  shining  eyes  protrude 
are  quite  still.  No  sound  comes  from  the  long  couches 
except  when  some  one  coughs,  or  that  of  the  iages  of  a 
book  turned  over  at  long  and  regular  intervals,  or  the 
undertone  of  question  and  quiet  answer  between  neigh- 
bours, or  now  and  again  the  crescendo  disturbance  of  a 
daring  crow,  escaped  to  the  balcony  from  those  flocks 
that  seem  threaded  across  the  immense  transparency  like 
chaplets  of  black  pearls. 

Silence  is  obligatory.  Besides,  the  rich  and  high- 
placed  who  have  come  here  from  all  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
smitten  by  the  same  evil,  have  lost  the  habit  of  talking. 
They  have  withdrawn  into  themselves,  to  think  of  their  life 
and  of  their  death. 

A  servant  appears  in  the  balcony,  dressed  in  white  and 
walking  softly.  She  brings  newspapers  and  hands  them 
about. 

"  It's  decided,"  says  the  first  to  unfold  his  paper. 
"  War  is  declared." 

Expected  as  the  news  is,  its  effect  is  almost  dazing,  for 
this  audience  feels  that  its  portent  is  without  measure  or 

B 


2  UNDER  FIRE 

limit.  These  men  of  culture  and  intelligence,  detached 
from  the  affairs  of  the  world  and  almost  from  the  world 
itself,  whose  faculties  are  deepened  by  suffering  and  medi- 
tation, as  far  remote  from  their  fellow  men  as  if  they  were 
already  of  the  Future — these  men  look  deeply  into  the 
distance,  towards  the  unknowable  land  of  the  living  and 
the  insane. 

"  Austria's  act  is  a  crime,"  says  the  Austrian. 

"  France  must  win"  says  the  Englishman. 

11 1  hope  Germany  will  be  beaten,"  says  the  German. 

They  settle  down  again  under  the  blankets  and  on  the 
pillows,  looking  to  heaven  and  the  high  peaks.  But  in 
spite  of  that  vast  purity,  the  silence  is  -filled  with  the  dire 
disclosure  of  a  moment  before. 

War ! 

Some  of  the  invalids  break  the  silence,  and  say  the 
word  again  under  their  breath,  reflecting  that  this  is  the 
greatest  happening  of  the  age,  and  perhaps  of  all  ages. 
Even  on  the  lucid  landscape  at  which  they  gaze  the  news 
casts  something  like  a  vague  and  sombre  mirage. 

The  tranquil  expanses  of  the  valley,  adorned  with  soft 
and  smooth  pastures  and  hamlets  rosy  as  the  rose,  with 
the  sable  shadow-stains  of  the  majestic  mountains  and 
the  black  lace  and  white  of  pines  and  eternal  snow,  become 
alive  with  the  movements  of  men,  whose  multitudes  swarm 
in  distinct  masses.  Attacks  develop,  wave  by  wave, 
across  the  fields  and  then  stand  still.  Houses  are  eviscer- 
ated like  human  beings  and  towns  like  houses.  Villages 
appear  in  crumpled  whiteness  as  though  fallen  front 
heaven  to  earth.  The  very  shape  of  the  plain  is  changed 
by  the  frightful  heaps  of  wounded  and  slain. 

Each  country  whose  frontiers  are  consumed  by  carnage 
is  seen  tearing  from  its  heart  ever  more  warriors  of  full 
blood  and  force.  Ones  eyes  follow  the  flow  of  these  living 
tributaries  to  the  River  of  Death.  To  north  and  south 
and  west  afar  there  are  battles  on  every  side.  Turn  where 
you  will,  there  is  war  in  every  corner  of  that  vastness. 

One  of  the  pale-faced  clairvoyants  lifts  himself  on  h 
elbow,  reckons  and  numbers  the  fighters  present  and 


THE  VISION  3 

come — thirty  millions  of  soldiers.  Another  stammers, 
his  eyes  full  of  slaughter,  "  Two  armies  at  death-grips — 
that  is  one  great  army  committing  suicide." 

"  It  should  not  have  been,"  says  the  deep  and  hollow 
voice  of  the  first  in  the  line.  But  another  says,  "  It  is 
the  French  Revolution  beginning  again."  "  Let  thrones 
beware  I  "  says  another's  undertone. 

The  third  adds,  "  Perhaps  it  is  the  last  war  of  all." 
A  silence  follows,  then  some  heads  are  shaken  in  dissent 
whose  faces  have  been  blanched  anew  by  the  stale  tragedy 
of  sleepless  night — "  Stop  war  ?  Stop  war  ?  Impossible  ! 
There  is  no  cure  for  the  world's  disease." 

Some  one  coughs,  and  then  the  Vision  is  swallowed  up 
in  the  huge  sunlit  peace  of  the  lush  meadows.  In  the  rich 
colours  of  the  glowing  kine,  the  black  forests,  the  green 
fields  and  the  blue  distance,  dies  the  reflection  of  the  fire 
where  the  old  world  burns  and  breaks.  Infinite  silence 
engulfs  the  uproar  of  hate  and  pain  from  the  dark  swarm- 
ings  of  mankind.  They  who  have  spoken  retire  one  by 
one  within  themselves,  absorbed  once  more  in  their  own 
mysterious  malady. 

But  when  evening  is  ready  to  descend  within  the  valley, 
a  storm  breaks  over  the  mass  of  Mont  Blanc.  One  may 
not  go  forth  in  such  peril,  for  the  last  waves  of  the  storm- 
wind  roll  even  to  the  great  verandah,  'to  that  harbour  where 
they  have  taken  refuge ;  and  these  victims  of  a  great 
internal  wound  encompass  with  their  gaze  the  elemental 
convulsion. 

They  watch  how  the  explosions  of  thunder  on  the  moun- 
tain upheave  the  level  clouds  like  a  stormy  sea,  how  each 
one  hurls  a  shaft  of  fire  and  a  column  of  cloud  together 
into  the  twilight  /  and  they  turn  their  wan  and  sunken 
faces  to  follow  the  flight  of  the  eagles  that  wheel  in  the  sky 
and  look  from  their  supreme  height  down  through  the 
wreathing  mists,  down  to  earth* 

"Put  an  end  to  war?"  say  the  watchers. — "  Forbid 
the  Storm  !  " 

Cleansed  from  the  passions  of  party  and  faction,  liberated 
from  prejudice  and  infatuation  and  the  tyranny  of  tradi- 


4  UNDER  FIRE 

tion,  these  watchers  on  the  threshold  of  another  world  are 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  simplicity  of  the  present  and  the 
yawning  possibilities  of  the  future. 

The  man  at  the  end  of  the  rank  cries,  "  I  can  see  crawling 
things  down  there  " — "  Y^s,  as  though  they  were  alive  " — 
"  Some  sort  of  plant,  perhaps  " — "  Some  kind  of  men  " — 

And  there  amid  the  baleful  glimmers  of  the  storm,  below 
the  dark  disorder  of  the  clouds  that  extend  and  unfurl  over 
the  earth  like  evil  spirits,  they  seem  to  see  a  great  livid 
plain  unrolled,  which  to  their  seeing  is  made  of  mud  and 
water,  while  figures  appear  and  fast  fix  themselves  to  the 
surface  of  it,  all  blinded  and  borne  down  with  filth,  like 
the  dreadful  castaways  of  shipwreck.  And  it  seems  to 
them  that  these  are  soldiers. 

The  streaming  plain,  seamed  and  seared  with  long 
parallel  canals  and  scooped  into  water-holes,  is  an  im- 
mensity, and  these  castaways  who  strive  to  exhume  them- 
selves from  it  are  legion.  But  the  thirty  million  slaves, 
hurled  upon  one  another  in  the  mud  of  war  by  guilt  and 
error,  uplift  their  human  faces  and  reveal  at  last  a  bour- 
geoning Will.  The  future  is  in  the  hands  of  these  slaves, 
and  it  is  clearly  certain  that  the  alliance  to  be  cemented 
some  day  by  those  whose  number  and  whose  misery  alike 
are  infinite  will  transform  the  old  world. 


II 

IN   THE   EARTH 

THE  great  pale  sky  is  alive  with  thunderclaps.  Each 
detonation  reveals  together  a  shaft  of  red  falling  fire 
in  what  is  left  of  the  night,  and  a  column  of  smoke  in 
what  has  dawned  of  the  day.  Up  there — so  high  and 
so  far  that  they  are  heard  unseen — a  flight  of  dreadful 
birds  goes  circling  up  with  strong  and  palpitating  cries 
to  look  down  upon  the  earth. 

The  earth  !  It  is  a  vast  and  water-logged  desert  that 
begins  to  take  shape  under  the  long-drawn  desolation 
of  daybreak.  There  are  pools  and  gullies  where  the 
bitter  breath  of  earliest  morning  nips  the  water  and  sets 
it  a-shiver ;  tracks  traced  by  the  troops  and  the  convoys 
of  the  night  in  these  barren  fields,  the  lines  of  ruts  that 
glisten  in  the  weak  light  like  steel  rails,  mud-masses  with 
broken  stakes  protruding  from  them,  ruined  trestles, 
and  bushes  of  wire  in  tangled  coils.  With  its  slime- 
beds  and  puddles,  the  plain  might  be  an  endless  grey 
sheet  that  floats  on  the  sea  and  has  here  and  there  gone 
under.  Though  no  rain  is  falling,  all  is  drenched,  oozing, 
washed  out  and  drowned,  and  even  the  wan  light  seems 
to  flow. 

Now  you  can  make  out  a  network  of  long  ditches 
where  the  lave  of  the  night  still  lingers.  It  is  the  trench. 
It  is  carpeted  at  bottom  with  a  layer  of  slime  that 
liberates  the  foot  at  each  step  with  a  sticky  sound ;  and 
by  each  dug-out  it  smells  of  the  night's  excretions. 
The  holes  themselves,  as  you  stoop  to  peer  in,  are  foul 
of  breath. 

I  see  shadows  coming  from  these  sidelong  pits  and 
moving  about,  huge  and  misshapen  lumps,  bear-like, 

5 


6  UNDER  FIRE 

that  flounder  and  growl.  They  are  "us."  We  are 
muffled  like  Eskimos.  Fleeces  and  blankets  and  sack- 
ing wrap  us  up,  weigh  us  down,  magnify  us  strangely. 
Some  stretch  themselves,  yawning  profoundly.  Faces 
appear,  ruddy  or  leaden,  dirt-disfigured,  pierced  by  the 
little  lamps  of  dull  and  heavy-lidded  eyes,  matted  with 
uncut  beards  and  foul  with  forgotten  hair. 

Crack  !  Crack  !  Boom  ! — rifle  fire  and  cannonade. 
Above  us  and  all  around,  it  crackles  and  rolls,  in  long 
gusts  or  separate  explosions.  The  flaming  and  melan- 
choly storm  never,  never  ends.  For  more  than  fifteen 
months,  for  five  hundred  days  in  this  part  of  the  world 
where  we  are,  the  rifles  and  the  big  guns  have  gone  on 
from  morning  to  night  and  from  night  to  morning.  We 
are  buried  deep  in  an  everlasting  battlefield ;  but  like 
the  ticking  of  the  clocks  at  home  in  the  days  gone  by 
— in  the  now  almost  legendary  Past — you  only  hear  the 
noise  when  you  listen. 

A  babyish  face  with  puffy  eyelids,  and  cheek-bones 
as  lurid  as  if  lozenge-shaped  bits  of  crimson  paper  had 
been  stuck  on,  comes  out  of  the  ground,  opens  one  eye, 
then  the  other.  It  is  Paradis.  The  skin  of  his  fat  cheeks 
is  scored  with  the  marks  of  the  folds  in  the  tent-cloth 
that  has  served  him  for  night-cap.  The  glance  of  his 
little  eye  wanders  all  round  me ;  he  sees  me,  nods,  and 
says — 

"  Another  night  gone,  old  chap." 
"  Yes,  sonny;  how  many  more  like  it  still?  " 
He  raises  his  two  plump  arms  skywards.     He  has 
managed  to  scrape  out  by  the  steps  of  the  dug-out  and 
is  beside  me.     After  stumbling  over  the  dim  obstacle  oi 
a  man  who  sits  in  the  shadows,  fervently  scratches  him- 
self   and   sighs   hoarsely,    Paradis  makes   off — lamely 
splashing  like  a  penguin  through  the  flooded  picture. 

One  by  one  the  men  appear  from  the  depths.  In  the 
corners,  heavy  shadows  are  seen  forming — human  clouds 
that  move  and  break  up.  One  by  one  they  become  recog- 
nisable. There  is  one  who  comes  out  hooded  with  his 
blanket — a  savage,  you  would  say,  or  rather,  the  tent 


IN  THE  EARTH  7 

of  a  savage,  which  walks  and  sways  from  side  to  side. 
Near  by,  and  heavily  framed  in  knitted  wool,  a  square 
face  is  disclosed,  yellow-brown  as  though  iodised,  and 
patterned  with  blackish  patches,  the  nose  broken,  the 
eyes  of  Chinese  restriction  and  red-circled,  a  little  coarse 
and  moist  moustache  like  a  greasing-brush. 

"  There's  Volpatte.     How  goes  it,  Firmin?  " 

"  It  goes,  it  goes,  and  it  comes, "  says  Volpatte.  His 
heavy  and  drawling  voice  is  aggravated  by  hoarseness. 
He  coughs — "  My  number's  up,  this  time.  Say,  did  you 
hear  it  last  night,  the  attack?  My  boy,  talk  about 
a  bombardment — something  very  choice  in  the  way  of 
mixtures  !  "  He  sniffles  and  passes  his  sleeve  under  his 
concave  nose.  His  hand  gropes  within  his  greatcoat 
and  his  jacket  till  it  finds  the  skin,  and  scratches.  "  I've 
killed  thirty  of  them  in  the  candle,"  he  growls ;  "in  the 
big  dug-out  by  the  tunnel,  mon  vieux,  there  are  some  like 
crumbs  of  metal  bread.  You  can  see  them  running  about 
in  the  straw  like  I'm  telling  you." 

"  Who's  been  attacking?    The  Boches?  " 

"  The  Boches  and  us  too — out  Vimy  way — a  counter- 
attack— didn't  you  hear  it?  " 

"No,"  the  big  Lamuse,  the  ox-man,  replies  on  my 
account ;  "I  was  snoring ;  but  I  was  on  fatigue  all 
night  the  night  before." 

"  I  heard  it,"  declares  the  little  Breton,  Biquet;  "  I 
slept  badly,  or  rather,  didn't  sleep.  I've  got  a  doss- 
house  all  to  myself.  Look,  see,  there  it  is — the  damned 
thing."  He  points  to  a  trough  on  the  ground  level, 
where  on  a  meagre  mattress  of  muck,  there  is  just 
body-room  for  one.  "  Talk  about  home  in  a  nutshell !  " 
he  declares,  wagging  the  rough  and  rock-hard  little  head 
that  looks  as  if  it  had  never  been  finished.  "  I  hardly 
snoozed.  I'd  just  got  off,  but  was  woke  up  by  the  relief 
of  the  i agth  that  went  by — not  by  the  noise,  but  the 
smell.  Ah,  all  those  chaps  with  their  feet  on  the  level 
with  my  nose  !  It  woke  me  up,  it  gave  me  nose-ache 
so." 

I  knew  it.     I  hav^  often  been  wakened  in  the  trench 


8  UNDER  FIRE 

myself  by  the  trail  of  heavy  smell  in  the  wake  of  marching 
men. 

"  It  was  all  right,  at  least,  if  it  killed  the  vermin," 
said  Tirette. 

"On  the  contrary,  it  excites  them,"  says  Lamuse; 
"  the  worse  you  smell,  the  more  you  have  of  'em." 

"  And  it's  lucky,"  Biquet  went  on,  "  that  their  stink 
woke  me  up.  As  I  was  telling  that  great  tub  just  now, 
I  got  my  peepers  open  just  in  time  to  seize  the  tent- 
cloth  that  shut  my  hole  up — one  of  those  muck-heaps 
was  going  to  pinch  it  off  me." 

"  Dirty  devils,  the  I29th."  The  human  form  from 
which  the  words  came  could  now  be  distinguished  down 
below  at  our  feet,  where  the  morning  had  not  yet  reached 
it.  Grasping  his  abundant  clothing  by  handsful,  he 
squatted  and  wriggled.  It  was  Papa  Blaire.  His  little 
eyes  blinked  among  the  dust  that  luxuriated  on  his  face. 
Above  the  gap  of  his  toothless  mouth,  his  moustache 
made  a  heavy  sallow  lump.  His  hands  were  horribly 
black,  the  top  of  them  shaggy  with  dirt,  the  palms 
plastered  in  grey  relief.  Himself,  shrivelled  and  dirt- 
bedight,  exhaled  the  scent  of  an  ancient  stewpan. 
Though  busily  scratching,  he  chatted  with  big  Barque, 
who  leaned  towards  him  from  a  little  way  off. 

"  I  wasn't  as  mucky  as  this  when  I  was  a  civvy," 
he  said. 

"  Well,  my  poor  friend,  it's  a  dirty  change  for  the 
worse,"  said  Barque. 

"  Lucky  for  you,"  says  Tirette,  going  one  better ; 
"  when  it  comes  to  kids,  you'll  present  madame  with 
some  little  niggers  !  " 

Blaire  took  offence,  and  gathering  gloom  wrinkled  his 
brow.  "  What  have  you  got  to  give  me  lip  about,  you  ? 
What  next?  It's  war-time.  As  for  you,  bean-face, 
you  think  perhaps  the  war  hasn't  changed  your  phizog 
and  your  manners?  Look  at  yourself,  monkey-snout, 
buttock-skin  !  A  man  must  be  a  beast  to  talk  as  you 
do."  He  passed  his  hand  over  the  dark  deposit  on  his 
face,  which  the  rains  of  those  days  had  proved  finally 


IN  THE  EARTH  9 

indelible,  and  added,  "  Besides,  if  I  am  as  I  am,  it's 
my  own  choosing.  To  begin  with,  I  have  no  teeth. 
The  major  said  to  me  a  long  time  ago,  '  You  haven't 
a  single  tooth.  It's  not  enough.  At  your  next  rest,'  he 
says /take  a  turn  round  to  the  estomalogical  ambulance." 

"  The  tomatological  ambulance,"  corrected  Barque. 

"  Stomatological,"  Bertrand  amended. 

"  You  have  all  the  making  of  an  army  cook — you 
ought  to  have  been  one,"  said  Barque. 

"  My  idea,  too,"  retorted  Blaire  innocently.  Some 
one  laughed.  The  black  man  got  up  at  the  insult. 
'  You  give  me  belly-ache,"  he  said  with  scorn.  "I'm 
off  to  the  latrines." 

When  his  doubly  dark  silhouette  had  vanished,  the 
others  scrutinised  once  more  the  great  truth  that  down 
here  in  the  earth  the  cooks  are  the  dirtiest  of  men. 

"  If  you  see  a  chap  with  his  skin  and  toggery  so 
smeared  and  stained  that  you  wouldn't  touch  him  with 
a  barge-pole,  you  can  say  to  yourself,  '  Probably  he's  a 
cook.'  And  the  dirtier  he  is,  the  more  likely  to  be  a 
cook." 

"  It's  true,  and  true  again,"  said  Marthereau. 

"  Tiens,  there's  Tirloir  !    Hey,  Tirloir  !  " 

He  comes  up  busily,  peering  this  way  and  that,  on 
an  eager  scent.  His  insignificant  head,  pale  as  chlorine, 
hops  centrally  about  in  the  cushioning  collar  of  a  great- 
coat that  is  much  too  heavy  and  big  for  him.  His  chin 
is  pointed,  and  his  upper  teeth  protrude.  A  wrinkle 
round  his  mouth  is  so  deep  with  dirt  that  it  looks  like  a 
muzzle.  As  usual,  he  is  angry,  and  as  usual,  he  rages 
aloud. 

"  Some  one  cut  my  pouch  in  two  last  night  !  " 

"  It  was  the  relief  of  the  i2Qth.  Where  had  you 
put  it?  " 

He  indicates  a  bayonet  stuck  in  the  wall  of  the  trench 
close  to  the  mouth  of  a  funk-hole — "  There,  hanging  on 
the  toothpick  there." 

"  Ass  !  "  comes  the  chorus.  "  Within  reach  of  passing 
soldiers  !  Not  dotty,  are  you  ?  " 


io  UNDER  FIRE 

"  It's  hard  lines  all  the  same,"  wails  Tirloir.  Then 
suddenly  a  fit  of  rage  seizes  him,  his  face  crumples,  his 
little  fists  clench  in  fury,  he  tightens  them  like  knots  in 
string  and  waves  them  about.  "  Alors  quo  I  ?  Ah,  if 
I  had  hold  of  the  mongrel  that  did  it  !  Talk  about 
breaking  his  jaw — I'd  stave  in  his  bread-pan,  I'd— there 
was  a  whole  Camembert  in  there,  I'll  go  and  look  for  it." 
He  massages  his  stomach  with  the  little  shar^  :ps  of 
a  guitar  player,  and  plunges  into  the  grey  of  the  rning, 
grinning  yet  dignified,  with  his  awkward  outinies  of 
an  invalid  in  a  dressing-gown.  We  hear  him  grumbling 
until  he  disappears. 

"  Strange  man,  that,"  says  Pe"pin ;  the  others  chuckle. 

"  He's  daft  and  crazy,"  declares  Marthereau,  who  is 
in  the  habit  of  fortifying  the  expression  of  his  thought 
by  using  two  synonyms  at  once. 

*  *  #  *  *  * 

"  Tiens,  old  man,"  says  Tulacque,  as  he  comes  up. 
"  Look  at  this." 

Tulacque  is  magnificent.  He  is  wearing  a  lemon- 
yellow  coat  made  out  of  an  oilskin  sleeping-sack.  He 
has  arranged  a  hole  in  the  middle  to  get  his  head  through, 
and  compelled  his  shoulder-straps  and  belt  to  go  over  it. 
He  is  tall  and  bony.  He  holds  his  face  in  advance  as 
he  walks,  a  forceful  face,  with  eyes  that  squint.  He 
has  something  in  his  hand.  "  I  found  this  while  digging 
last  night  at  the  end  of  the  new  gallery  to  change 
the  rotten  gratings.  It  took  my  fancy  off-hand,  that 
knick-knack.  It's  an  old  pattern  of  hatchet." 

It  was  indeed  an  old  pattern,  a  sharpened  flint  hafted 
with  an  old  brown  bone — quite  a  prehistoric  tool  in 
appearance. 

"  Very  handy,"  said  Tulacque,  fingering  it.  "  Yes, 
not  badly  thought  out.  Better  balanced  than  the 
regulation  axe.  That'll  be  useful  to  me,  you'll  see." 
As  he  brandishes  that  axe  of  Post-Tertiary  Man,  he 
would  himself  pass  for  an  ape-man,  decked  out  with 
rags  and  lurking  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

One  by  one  we  gathered,  we  of  Bertrand's  squad  and 


IN  THE  EARTH  11 

the  half-section,  at  an  elbow  of  the  trench.  Just  here 
it  is  a  little  wider  than  in  the  straight  part,  where  when 
you  meet  another  and  have  to  pass  you  must  throw  your- 
self against  the  side,  rub  your  back  in  the  earth  and  your 
stomach  against  the  stomach  of  the  other. 

Our  company  occupies,  in  reserve,  a  second  line 
parallel.  No  night  watchman  work  here.  At  night 
we  are  ready  for  making  earthworks  in  front,  but  as 
long  as  the  day  lasts  we  have  nothing  to  do.  Huddled 
up  together  and  linked  arm  in  arm,  it  only  remains  to 
await  the  evening  as  best  we  can. 

Daylight  has  at  last  crept  into  the  interminable 
crevices  that  furrow  this  part  of  the  earth,  and  now  it 
finds  the  threshold  of  our  holes.  It  is  the  melancholy 
light  of  the  North  Country,  of  a  restricted  and  muddy 
sky,  a  sky  which  itself,  one  would  say,  is  heavy  with 
the  smoke  and  smell  of  factories.  In  this  leaden  light, 
the  uncouth  array  of  these  dwellers  in  the  depths  reveals 
the  stark  reality  of  the  huge  and  hopeless  misery  that 
brought  it  into  being.  But  that  is  like  the  rattle  of 
rifles  and  the  verberation  of  artillery.  The  drama  in 
which  we  are  actors  has  lasted  much  too  long  for  us  to  be 
surprised  any  more,  either  at  the  stubbornness  we  have 
evolved  or  the  garb  we  have  devised  against  the  rain 
that  comes  from  above,  against  the  mud  that  comes 
from  beneath,  and  against  the  cold — that  sort  of  infinity 
that  is  everywhere. 

The  skins  of  animals,  bundles  of  blankets,  Balaklava 
helmets,  woollen  caps,  furs,  bulging  mufflers  (sometimes 
worn  turban-wise),  paddings  and  quiltings,  knittings 
and  double-knittings,  coverings  and  roofings  and  cowls, 
tarred  or  oiled  or  rubbered,  black  or  all  the  colours 
(once  upon  a  time)  of  the  rainbow — all  these  things  mask 
and  magnify  the  men,  and  wipe  out  their  uniforms 
almost  as  effectively  as  their  skins.  One  has  fastened 
on  his  back  a  square  of  linoleum,  with  a  big  draught- 
board pattern  in  white  and  red,  that  he  found  in  the 
middle  of  the  dining-room  of  some  temporary  refuge. 
That  is  Pepin.  We  know  him  afar  off  by  his  harlequin 


12  UNDER  FIRE 

placard  sooner  even  than  by  his  pale  Apache  face.  Here 
is  Barque's  bulging  chest-protector,  carven  from  an 
eiderdown  quilt,  formerly  pink,  but  now  fantastically 
bleached  and  mottled  by  dust  and  rain.  There,  Lamuse 
the  Huge  rises  like  a  ruined  tower  to  which  tattered 
posters  still  cling.  A  cuirass  of  moleskin,  with  the  fur 
inside,  adorns  little  Eudore  with  the  burnished  back 
of  a  beetle ;  while  the  golden  corselet  of  Tulacque  the 
Big  Chief  surpasses  all. 

The  "  tin  hat  "  gives  a  certain  sameness  to  the  highest 
points  of  the  beings  that  are  there,  but  even  then  the 
divers  ways  of  wearing  it — on  the  regulation  cap  like 
Biquet,  over  a  Balaklava  like  Cadilhac,  or  on  a  cotton 
cap  like  Barque — produce  a  complicated  diversity  of 
appearance. 

And  our  legs  !  I  went  down  just  now,  bent  double, 
into  our  dug-out,  the  little  low  cave  that  smells  musty 
and  damp,  where  one  stumbles  over  empty  jam-pots 
and  dirty  rags,  where  two  long  lumps  lay  asleep,  while 
in  the  corner  a  kneeling  shape  rummaged  a  pouch  by 
candle-light.  As  I  climbed  out,  the  rectangle  of  entry 
afforded  me  a  revelation  of  our  legs.  Flat  on  the  ground, 
vertically  in  the  air,  or  aslant ;  spread  about,  doubled 
up,  or  mixed  together ;  blocking  the  fairway  and  cursed 
by  passers-by,  they  present  a  collection  of  many  colours 
and  many  shapes — gaiters,  leggings  black  or  yellow, 
long  or  short,  in  leather,  in  tawny  cloth,  in  any  sort  of 
waterproof  stuff ;  puttees  in  dark  blue,  light  blue,  black, 
sage  green,  khaki,  and  beige.  Alone  of  all  his  kind, 
Volpatte  has  retained  the  modest  gaiters  of  mobilisation. 
Mesnil  Andre  has  displayed  for  a  fortnight  a  pair  of  thick 
woollen  stockings,  ribbed  and  green ;  and  Tirette  has 
always  been  known  by  his  grey  cloth  puttees  with  white 
stripes,  commandeered  from  a  pair  of  civilian  trousers 
that  was  hanging  goodness  knows  where  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war.  As  for  Marthereau's  puttees,  they  are 
not  both  of  the  same  hue,  for  he  failed  to  find  two  fag- 
ends  of  greatcoat  equally  worn  and  equally  dirty,  to 
be  cut  up  into  strips. 


IN  THE  EARTH  13 

There  are  legs  wrapped  up  in  rags,  too,  and  even 
in  newspapers,  which  are  kept  in  place  with  spirals  of 
thread  or — much  more  practical — telephone  wire.  Pepin 
fascinated  his  friends  and  the  passers-by  with  a  pair  of 
fawn  gaiters,  borrowed  from  a  corpse.  Barque,  who 
poses  as  a  resourceful  man,  full  of  ideas — and  Heaven 
knows  what  a  bore  it  makes  of  him  at  times  ! — has 
white  calves,  for  he  wrapped  surgical  bandages  round 
his  leg-cloths  to  preserve  them,  a  snowy  souvenir  at  his 
latter  end  of  the  cotton  cap  at  the  other,  which  protrudes 
below  his  helmet  and  is  left  behind  in  its  turn  by  a  saucy 
red  tassel.  Poterloo  has  been  walking  about  for  a  month 
in  the  boots  of  a  German  soldier,  nearly  new,  and  with 
horseshoes  on  the  heels.  Caron  entrusted  them  to 
Poterloo  when  he  was  sent  back  on  account  of  his  arm. 
Caron  had  taken  them  himself  from  a  Bavarian  machine- 
gunner,  knocked  out  near  the  Pylones  road.  I  can  hear 
Caron  telling  about  it  yet — 

"  Old  man,  he  was  there,  his  buttocks  in  a  hole, 
doubled  up,  gaping  at  the  sky  with  his  legs  in  the  air, 
and  his  pumps  offered  themselves  to  me  with  an  air  that 
meant  they  were  worth  my  while.  '  A  tight  fit,'  says  I. 
But  you  talk  about  a  job  to  bring  those  beetle-crushers  of 
his  away  !  I  worked  on  top  of  him,  tugging,  twisting 
and  shaking,  for  half  an  hour  and  no  lie  about  it.  With 
his  feet  gone  quite  stiff,  the  patient  didn't  help  me  a 
bit.  Then  at  last  the  legs  of  it — they'd  been  pulled 
about  so — came  unstuck  at  the  knees,  and  his  breeks 
tore  away,  and  all  the  lot  came,  flop !  There  was  me, 
all  of  a  sudden,  with  a  full  boot  in  each  fist.  The  legs 
and  feet  had  to  be  emptied  out.'* 

"  You're  going  it  a  bit  strong  !  " 

"  Ask  Euterpe  the  cyclist  if  it  isn't  true.  I  tell  you 
he  did  it  along  of  me,  too.  We  shoved  our  arms  inside  the 
boots  and  pulled  out  of  'em  some  bones  and  bits  of  sock 
and  bits  of  feet.  But  look  if  they  weren't  worth  while  !  " 

So,  until  Caron  returns,  Poterloo  continues  on  his 
behalf  the  wearing  of  the  Bavarian  machine-gunner's 
boots. 


14  UNDER  FIRE 

Thus  do  they  exercise  their  wits,  according  to  their 
intelligence,  their  vivacity,  their  resources,  and  their 
boldness,  in  the  struggle  with  the  terrible  discomfort. 
Each  one  seems  to  make  the  revealing  declaration, 
"  This  is  all  that  I  knew,  all  I  was  able,  all  that  I  dared 
to  do  in  the  great  misery  which  has  befallen  me." 

****** 

Mesnil  Joseph  drowses;  Blaire  yawns;  Marthereau 
smokes,  "  eyes  front."  Lamuse  scratches  himself  like  a 
gorilla,  and  Eudore  like  a  marmoset.  Volpatte  coughs, 
and  says,  "  I'm  kicking  the  bucket."  Mesnil  Andre  has 
got  out  his  mirror  and  comb  and  is  tending  his  fine 
chestnut  beard  as  though  it  were  a  rare  plant.  The 
monotonous  calm  is  disturbed  here  and  there  by  the  out- 
breaks of  ferocious  resentment  provoked  by  the  presence 
of  parasites — endemic,  chronic,  and  contagious. 

Barque,  who  is  an  observant  man,  sends  an  itinerant 
glance  around,  takes  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  spits, 
winks,  and  says — 

"  I  say,  we  don't  resemble  each  other  much." 

"  Why  should  we?  "  says  Lamuse.  "  It  would  be  a 
miracle  if  we  did." 

****** 

Our  ages  ?  We  are  of  all  ages.  Ours  is  a  regiment 
in  reserve  which  successive  reinforcements  have  renewed 
partly  with  fighting  units  and  partly  with  Territorials. 
In  our  half-section  there  are  reservists  of  the  Territorial 
Army,  new  recruits,  and  demi-poils.  Fouillade  is  forty ; 
Blaire  might  be  the  father  of  Biquet,  who  is  a  gosling 
of  Class  1913.  The  corporal  calls  Marthereau  "  Grandpa  " 
or  "  Old  Rubbish-heap,"  according  as  in  jest  or  in 
earnest.  Mesnil  Joseph  would  be  at  the  barracks  if 
there  were  no  war.  It  is  a  comical  effect  when  we  are 
in  charge  of  Sergeant  Vigile,  a  nice  little  boy,  with  a  dab 
on  his  lip  by  way  of  moustache.  When  we  were  in 
quarters  the  other  day,  he  played  at  skipping-rope  with 
the  kiddies.  In  our  ill-assorted  flock,  in  this  family 
without  kindred,  this  home  without  a  hearth  at  which 
we  gather,  there  are  three  generations  side  by  side, 


IN  THE  EARTH  15 

living,  waiting,  standing  still,  like  unfinished  statues,  like 
posts. 

Our  races  ?  We  are  of  all  races  ;  we  come  from  every- 
where. I  look  at  the  two  men  beside  me.  Poterloo, 
the  miner  from  the  Calonne  pit,  is  pink;  his  eyebrows 
are  the  colour  of  straw,  his  eyes  flax-blue.  His  great 
golden  head  involved  a  long  search  in  the  stores  to  find 
the  vast  eteel-blue  tureen  that  bonnets  him.  Fouillade, 
the  boat -^ an  from  Cette,  rolls  his  wicked  eyes  in  the  long, 
lean  face  of  a  musketeer,  with  sunken  cheeks  and  his 
skin  T  >!our  of  a  violin.  In  good  sooth,  my  two 
neighbor- ij  are  as  unlike  as  day  and  night. 

Cocon,  -10  less,  a  slight  and  desiccated  person  in  spec- 
tacles, v/'-.ose  tint  tells  of  corrosion  in  the  chemical 
vapc-un-  '  great  towns,  contrasts  with  Biquet,  a  Breton 
in  tli  whose  skin  is  grey  and  his  jaw  like  a  paving- 

stone  ;  '•!  Mesnil  Andre,  the  comfortable  chemist  from 
a  country  town  in  Normandy,  who  has  such  a  handsome 
and  silky  beard  and  who  talks  so  much  and  so  well — 
he  has  li:l'e  in  common  with  Lainuse,  the  fat  peasant 
of  Poit- :  %  \\iiose  cheeks  and  ne-ck  are  like  underdone 
beef.  The  suburban  accent  of  Barque,  whose  long  legs 
have  scoured  the  streets  of  Paris  in  all  directions,  alter- 
nates with  the  semi-Belgian  cadence  of  those  Northerners 
who  cairn?  from  the  8th  Territorial;  with  the  sonorous 
speech,  rolling  on  the  syllables  as  if  over  cobblestones, 
that  the  i,J4th  pours  out  upon  us ;  with  the  dialect  blown 
from  those  'ant-like  clusters  that  the  Auvergnats  so 
obstinate1}'  lurin  among  the  rest.  I  remember  the  first 
words  of  iL-.it  wag,  Tirette,  when  he  arrived — "  I,  mes 
enfants,  I  am  from  Clichy-la-Garenne  !  Can  any  one 
beat  that  ?  " — and  the  first  grievance,  that  Paradis 
brought  to  me,  "  They  don't  pive  a  damn  for  me,  because 
I'm  from  Mo r van  !  " 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Our  callings?  A  little  of  oil — in  the  lump.  In  those 
departed  days  when  we  had  a  social  status,  before  we 
came  to  immure  our  destiny  r  the  molehills  that  we  must 
always  build,  up  aeain  ^  fas  rHn  and  scrap-iron  beat 


1 6  UNDER  FIRE 

them  down,  what  were  we  ?  Sons  of  the  soil  and  arti- 
sans mostly.  Lamuse  was  a  farm-servant,  Paradis  a 
carter.  Cadilhac,  whose  helmet  rides  loosely  on  his 
pointed  head,  though  it  is  a  juvenile  size — like  a  dome 
on  a  steeple,  says  Tirette — owns  land.  Papa  Blaire  was 
a  small  farmer  in  La  Brie.  Barque,  porter  and  mes- 
senger, performed  acrobatic  tricks  with  his  carrier- 
tricycle  among  the  trams  and  taxis  of  Paris,  with  solemn 
abuse  (so  they  say)  for  the  pedestrians,  fleeing  like 
bewildered  hens  across  the  big  streets  and  squares. 
Corporal  Bertrand,  who  keeps  himself  always  a  little 
aloof,  correct,  erect,  and  silent,  with  a  strong  and  hand- 
some face  and  forthright  gaze,  was  foreman  in  a  case-" 
factory.  Tirloir  daubed  carts  with  paint — and  without 
grumbling,  they  say.  Tulacque  was  barman  at  the  Throne 
Tavern  in  the  suburbs;  and  Eudore  of  the  pale  and 
pleasant  face  kept  a  roadside  cafe  not  very  far  from 
the  front  lines.  It  has  been  ill-used  by  the  shells — 
naturally,  for  we  all  know  that  Eudore  has  no  luck. 
Mesnil  Andre,  who  still  retains  a  trace  of  well-kept 
distinction,  sold  bicarbonate  and  infallible  remedies  at 
his  pharmacy  in  a  Grande  Place.  His  brother  Joseph 
was  selling  papers  and  illustrated  story-books  in  a 
station  on  the  State  Railways  at  the  same  time  that,  in 
far-off  Lyons,  Cocon,  the  man  of  spectacles  and  statistics, 
dressed  in  a  black  smock,  busied  himself  behind  the 
counters  of  an  ironmongery,  his  hands  glittering  with 
plumbago ;  while  the  lamps  of  Becuwe  Adolphe  and 
Poterloo,  risen  with  the  dawn,  trailed  about  the  coal- 
pits of  the  North  like  weakling  Will-o'-th'- wisps. 

And  there  are  others  amongst  us  whose  occupations 
one  can  never  recall,  whom  one  confuses  with  one 
another;  and  the  rural  nondescripts  who  peddled  ten 
trades  at  once  in  their  packs,  without  counting  the 
dubious  Pepin,  who  can  have  had  none  at  all.  (While 
at  the  depot  after  sick  leave,  three  months  ago,  they  say, 
he  got  married — to  secure  the  separation  allowance.) 

The  liberal  professions  are  not  represented  among 
those  around  me.  Some  teachers  are  subalterns  in  the 


IN  THE  EARTH  17 

company  or  Red  Cross  men.  In  the  regiment  a  Marist 
Brother  is  sergeant  in  the  Service  de  Sante ;  a  professional 
tenor  is  cyclist  dispatch-rider  to  the  Major;  a  "  gentle- 
man of  independent  means  "  is  mess  corporal  to  the 
C.H.R.  But  here  there  is  nothing  of  all  that.  We  are 
fighting  men,  we  others,  and  we  include  hardly  any 
intellectuals,  or  men  of  the  arts  or  of  wealth,  who  during 
this  war  will  have  risked  their  faces  only  at  the  loop- 
holes, unless  in  passing  by,  or  under  gold-laced  caps. 

Yes,  we  are  truly  and  deeply  different  from  each  other. 
But  we  are  alike  all  the  same.  In  spite  of  this  diversity 
of  age,  of  country,  of  education,  of  position,  of  every- 
thing possible,  in  spite  of  the  former  gulfs  that  kept  us 
apart,  we  are  in  the  main  alike.  Under  the  same  un- 
couth outlines  we  conceal  and  reveal  the  same  ways 
and  habits,  the  same  simple  nature  of  men  who  have 
reverted  to  the  state  primeval. 

The  same  language,  compounded  of  dialect  and  the 
slang  of  workshop  and  barracks,  seasoned  with  the 
latest  inventions,  blends  us  in  the  sauce  of  speech  with 
the  massed  multitudes  of  men  who  (for  seasons  now) 
have  emptied  France  and  crowded  together  in  the 
North-East . 

Here,  too,  linked  by  a  fate  from  which  there  is  no 
escape,  swept  willy-nilly  by  the  vast  adventure  into  one 
rank,  we  have  no  choice  but  to  go  as  Ihe  weeks  and 
months  -go — alike.  The  terrible  narrowness  of  the 
common  life  binds  us  close,  adapts  us,  merges  us  one 
in  the  other.  It  is  a  sort  of  fatal  contagion.  Nor  need 
you,  to  see  how  alike  we  soldiers  are,  be  afar  off — at  that 
distance,  say,  when  we  are  only  specks  of  the  dust- 
clouds  that  roll  across  the  plain. 

We  are  waiting.  Weary  of  sitting,  we  get  up,  our 
joints  creaking  like  warping  wood  or  old  hinges.  Damp 
rusts  men  as  it  rusts  rifles ;  more  slowly,  but  deeper. 
And  we  begin  again,  but  not  in  the  same  way,  to  wait. 
In  a  state  of  war,  one  is  always  waiting.  We  have 
become  waiting-machines.  For  the  moment  it  is  food 
we  are  waiting  for.  Then  it  will  be  the  post.  But  each 
c 


1 8  UNDER  FIRE 

in  it*  turn.  When  we  have  done  with  dinner  we  will 
think  about  the  letters.  After  that,  we  shall  set  our- 
selves to  wait  for  something  else. 

Hunger  and  thirst  are  urgent  instincts  which  formid- 
ably excite  the  temper  of  my  companions.  As  the  meal 
gets  later  they  become  grumblesome  and  angry.  Their 
need  of  food  and  drink  snarls  from  their  lips — 

"That's  eight  o'clock.  Now,  why  the  hell  doesn't 
it  come  ?  " 

"  Just  to,  and  me  that's  been  pining  since  noon 
yesterday,"  sulks  Lamuse,  whose  eyes  are  moist  with 
longing,  while  his  cheeks  seem  to  carry  great  daubs  of 
wine-coloured  grease-paint. 

Discontent  grows  more  acute  every  minute. 

"  I'll- bet  Plumet  has  poured  down  his  own  gullet  my 
wine  ration  that  he's  supposed  to  have,  and  others  with 
it,  and  he's  lying  drunk  over  there  somewhere." 

"  It's  sure  and  certain  " — Marthereau  seconds  the 
proposition. 

"  Ah,  the  rotters,  the  vermin,  these  fatigue  men  !  " 
Tirloir  bellows.  "  An  abominable  race — all  of  'em — 
mucky-nosed  idlers  !  They  roll  over  each  other  all  day 
long  at  the  rear,  and  they'll  be  damned  before  they'll 
be  in  time.  Ah,  if  I  were  boss,  they  should  damn  quick 
take  our  places  in  the  trenches,  and  they'd  have  to  work 
for  a  change.  To  begin  with,  I  should  say,  '  Every  man 
in  the  section  will  carry  grease  and  soup  in  turns/  Those 
who  were  willing,  of  course " 

"  I'm  confident,"  cries  Cocon,  "  it's  that  Pepere  that's 
keeping  the  others  back.  He  does  it  on  purpose,  firstly, 
and  then,  too,  he  can't  finish  plucking  himself  in  the 
morning,  poor  lad.  He  wants  ten  hours  for  his  flea- 
hunt,  he's  so  finicking ;  and  if  he  can't  get  'em,  monsieur 
has  the  pip  all  day." 

"  Be  damned  to  him,"  growls  Lamuse.  "  I'd  shift  him 
out  of  bed  if  only  I  was  there  !  I'd  wake  him  up  with 
boot-toe,  I'd " 

"I  was  reckoning,  the  other  day,"  Cocon  went  on; 
"  it  took  him  seven  hours  forty-seven  minutes  to  come 


IN  THE  EARTH  19 

from  thirty-one  dug-out.  It  should  take  him  five  good 
hours,  but  no  longer." 

Cocon  is  the  Man  of  Figures.  He  has  a  deep  affec- 
tion, amounting  to  rapacity,  for  accuracy  in  recorded 
computation.  On  any  subject  at  all,  "he  goes  burrowing 
after  statistics,  gathers  them  with  the  industry  of  an 
insect,  and  serves  them  up  on  any  one  who  will  listen. 
Just  now,  while  he  wields  his  figures  like  weapons,  the 
sharp  ridges  and  angles  and  triangles  that  make  up  the 
paltry  face  where  perch  the  double  discs  of  his  glasses, 
are  contracted  with  vexation.  He  climbs  to  the  firing- 
step  (made  in  the  days  when  this  was  the  first  line),  and 
raises  his  head  angrily  over  the  parapet.  The  light  touch 
of  a  little  shaft  of  cold  sunlight  that  lingers  on  the  land 
sets  a-glitter  both  his  glasses  and  the  diamond  that 
hangs  from  his  nose. 

"  And  that  Pepere,  too,  talk  about  a  drinking-cup 
with  the  bottom  out  !  You'd  never  believe  the  weight 
of  stuff  he  can  let  drop  on  a  single  journey." 

With  his  pipe  in  the  corner,  Papa  Blaire  fumes  in  two 
senses.  You  can  see  his  heavy  moustache  trembling. 
It  is  like  a  comb  made  of  bone,  whitish  and  drooping. 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  what  /  think?  These  dinner 
men,  they're  the  dirtiest  dogs  of  all.  It's  '  Blast  this  ' 
and  '  Blast  that  '—John  Blast  and  Co.,  /  call  'em." 

"  They  have  all  the  elements  of  a  dunghill  about 
them,"  says  Eudore,  with  a  sigh  of  conviction.  He  is 
prone  on  the  ground,  with  his  mouth  half-open  and  the 
air  of  a  martyr.  With  one  fading  eye  he  follows  the 
movements  of  Pepin,  who  prowls  to  and  fro  like  a 
hyaena. 

Their  spiteful  exasperation  with  the  loiterers  mounts 
higher  and  higher.  Tirloir  the  Grumbler  takes  the  lead 
and  expands.  This  is  where  he  comes  in.  With  his  little 
pointed  gesticulations  he  goads  and  spurs  the  anger  all 
around  him. 

"  Ah,  the  devils,  what  ?  The  sort  of  meat  they  threw 
at  us  yesterday  !  Talk  about  whetstones  !  Beef  from  an 
ox,  that  ?  Beef  from  a  bicycle,  yes  rather  !  I  said  to  the 


20  UNDER  FIRE 

boys,  '  Look  here,  you  chaps,  don't  you  chew  it  too 
quick,  or  you'll  break  your  front  teeth  on  the  nails  ! ' 

Tirloir's  harangue — he  was  manager  of  a  travelling 
cinema,  it  seems — would  have  made  us  laugh  at  other 
times,  but  in  the  present  temper  it  is  only  echoed  by  a 
circulating  growl. 

"  Another  time,  so  that  you  won't  grumble  about  the 
toughness,  they  send  you  something  soft  and  flabby 
that  passes  for  meat,  something  with  the  look  and  the 
taste  of  a  sponge — or  a  poultice.  When  you  chew  that, 
it's  the  same  as  a  cup  of  water,  no  more  and  no  less." 

"  Tout  ga,"  says  Lamuse,  "  has  no  substance ;  it  gets 
no  grip  on  your  guts.  You  think  you're  full,  but  at  the 
bottom  of  your  tank  you're  empty.  So,  bit  by  bit,  you 
turn  your  eyes  up,  poisoned  for  want  of  sustenance." 

"  The  next  time,"  Biquet  exclaims  in  desperation,  "  I 
shall  ask  to  see  the  old  man,  and  I  shall  say,  '  Mon 
capitaine ' " 

"  And  I,"  says  Barque,  "  shall  make  myself  look  sick, 
and  I  shall  say,  '  Monsieur  le  major  ' " 

"  And  get  nix  or  the  kick-out — they're  all  alike — all 
in  a  band  to  take  it  out  of  the  poor  private." 

"  I  tell  you,  they'd  like  to  get  the  very  skin  off 
us!" 

"  And  the  brandy,  too  !  We  have  a  right  to  get  it 
brought  to  the  trenches — as  long  as  it's  been  decided 
somewhere — I  don't  know  when  or  where,  but  I  know  it 
— and  in  the  three  days  that  we've  been  here,  there's 
three  days  that  the  brandy's  been  dealt  out  to  us  on  the 
end  of  a  fork  !  " 

"  Ah,  malheur  !  " 

****** 

"  There's  the  grub  !  "  announces  a  poilu  *  who  was  on 
the  look-out  at  the  corner. 

"  Time,  too  !  " 

1  The  popular  and  international  name  for  a  French  soldier. 
Its  literal  meaning  is  "hairy,  shaggy,"  but  the  word  has  con- 
veyed for  over  a  century  the  idea  of  the  virility  of  a  Samson, 
whose  strength  lay  in  his  locks. — Tr. 


IN  THE  EARTH  21 

« 

And  the  storm  of  revilings  ceases  as  if  by  magic. 
Wrath  is  changed  into  sudden  contentment. 

Three  breathless  fatigue  men,  their  faces  streaming 
with  tears  of  sweat,  put  down  on  the  ground  some  large 
tins,  a  paraffin  can,  two  canvas  buckets,  and  a  file  of 
loaves,  skewered  on  a  stick.  Leaning  against  the  wall 
of  the  trench,  they  mop  their  faces  with  their  handker- 
chiefs or  sleeves.  And  I  see  Cocon  go  up  to  Pepere  with 
a  smile,  and  forgetful  of  the  abuse  he  had  been  heaping 
on  the  other's  reputation,  he  stretches  out  a  cordial  hand 
towards  one  of  the  cans  in  the  collection  that  swells  the 
circumference  of  Pepere  after  the  manner  of  a  life-belt. 

"  What  is  there  to  eat  ?  " 

"  It's  there,"  is  the  evasive  reply  of  the  second  fatigue 
man,  whom  experience  has  taught  that  a  proclamation 
of  the  menu  always  evokes  the  bitterness  of  disillusion. 
So  they  set  themselves  to  panting  abuse  of  the  length 
and  the  difficulties  of  the  trip  they  have  just  accom- 
plished :  "  Some  crowds  about,  everywhere  !  It's  a 
tough  job  to  get  along — got  to  disguise  yourself  as  a 
cigarette  paper,  sometimes." — "  And  there  are  people 
who  say  they're  shirkers  in  the  kitchens  !  "  As  for  htm, 
he  would  a  hundred  thousand  times  rather  be  with  the 
company  in  the  trenches,  to  mount  guard  and  dig,  than 
earn  his  keep  by  such  a  job,  twice  a  day  during  the  night ! 

Paradis,  having  lifted  the  lids  of  the  jars,  surveys  the 
recipients  and  announces,  "  Kidney  beans  in  oil,  bully, 
pudding,  and  coffee — that's  all." 

"  Nom  de  Dieu  !  "  bawls  Tulacque.  "  And  wine  ?  " 
He  summons  the  crowd  :  "  Come  and  look  here,  all  of 
you  !  That — that's  the  limit  !  We're  done  out  of  our 
wine  !  " 

Athirst  and  grimacing,  they  hurry  up ;  and  from  the 
profoundest  depths  of  their  being  wells  up  the  chorus 
of  despair  and  disappointment,  "  Oh,  Hell !  " 

"  Then  what's  that  in  there  ?  "  says  the  fatigue  man, 
still  ruddily  sweating,  and  using  his  foot  to  point  at  a 
bucket. 

"  Yes,"  says  Paradis,  "  my  mistake,  there  is  some." 


22  UNDER  FIRE 

The  fatigue  man  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  hurls  at 
Paradis  a  look  of  unspeakable  scorn — "  Now  you're 
beginning  !  Get  your  gig-lamps  on,  if  your  sight's  bad." 
He  adds,  "  One  cup  each — rather  less  perhaps — some 
chucklehead  bumped  against  me,  coming  through  the 
Boyau  du  Bois,  and  a  drop  got  spilled.  Ah  !  "  he 
hastens  to  add,  raising  his  voice,  "  if  I  hadn't  been 
loaded  up,  talk  about  the  boot-toe  he'd  have  got  in  the 
rump  !  But  he  hopped  it  on  his  top  gear,  the  brute  1  " 

In  spite  of  this  confident  assurance,  the  fatigue  man 
makes  off  himself,  curses  overtaking  him  as  he  goes, 
maledictions  charged  with  offensive  reflections  on  his 
honesty  and  temperance,  imprecations  inspired  by  this 
revelation  of  a  ration  reduced. 

All  the  same,  they  throw  themselves  on  the  food,  and 
eat  it  standing,  squatting,  kneeling,  sitting  on  tins,  or 
on  haversacks  pulled  out  of  the  holes  where  they  sleep — 
or  even  prone,  their  backs  on  the  ground,  disturbed  by 
passers-by,  cursed  at  and  cursing.  Apart  from  these 
fleeting  insults  and  jests,  they  say  nothing,  the  primary 
and  universal  interest  being  but  to  swallow,  with 
their  mouths  and  the  circumference  thereof  as  greasy 
as  a  rifle-breech.  Contentment  is  theirs. 

At  the  earliest  cessation  of  their  jaw-bones'  activity, 
they  serve  up  the  most  ribald  of  raillery.  They  knock 
each  other  about,  and  clamour  in  riotous  rivalry  to 
have  their  say.  One  sees  even  Farfadet  smiling,  the 
frail  municipal  clerk  who  in  the  early  days  kept  himself 
so  decent  and  clean  amongst  us  all  that  he  was  taken 
for  a  foreigner  or  a  convalescent.  One  sees  the  tomato- 
like  mouth  of  Lamuse  dilate  and  divide,  and  his  delight 
ooze  out  in  tears.  Poterloo's  face,  like  a  pink  peony, 
opens  out  wider  and  wider.  Papa  Blaire's  wrinkles 
flicker  with  frivolity  as  he  stands  up,  pokes  his  head 
forward,  and  gesticulates  with  the  abbreviated  body 
that  serves  as  a  handle  for  his  huge  drooping  moustache. 
Even  the  corrugations  of  Cocon's  poor  little  face  are 
lighted  up. 

Becuwe  go:is  in  search  of  firewood  to  warm  the  coffee 


IN  THE  EARTH  23 

While  we  wait  for  our  drink,  we  roll  cigarettes  and  fill 
pipes.  Pouches  are  pulled  out.  Some  of  us  have 
shop-acquired  pouches  in  leather  or  rubber,  but  they  are 
a  minority.  Biquet  extracts  his  tobacco  from  a  sock, 
of  which  the  mouth  is  drawn  tight  with  string.  Most 
of  the  others  use  the  bags  for  anti-gas  pads,  made  of 
some  waterproof  material  which  is  an  excellent  pre- 
servative of  shag,  be  it  coarse  or  fine ;  and  there  are 
those  who  simply  fumble  for  it  in  the  bottom  of  their 
greatcoat  pockets. 

The  smokers  spit  in  a  circle,  just  at  the  mouth  of 
the  dug-out  which  most  of  the  half -section  inhabit, 
and  flood  with  tobacco-stained  saliva  the  place  where 
they  put  their  hands  and  feet  when  they  flatten  them- 
selves to  get  in  or  out. 

But  who  notices  such  a  detail? 

.  *  *  *  *  * 

Now,  &  propos  of  a  letter  to  Marthereau  from  his  wife, 
they  discuss  produce. 

"  La  mere  Marthereau  has  written,"  he  says.  "  That 
fat  pig  we've  got  at  home,  a  fine  specimen,  guess  how 
much  she's  worth  now?  " 

But  the  subject  of  domestic  economy  degenerates 
suddenly  into  a  fierce  altercation  between  Pepin  and 
Tulacque.  Words  of  quite  unmistakable  significance 
are  exchanged.  Then — 

"  I  don't  care  a what  you  say  or  what  you  don't 

say  !  Shut  it  up  !  " — "  I  shall  shut  it  when  I  want, 
midden  !  " — "  A  seven-pound  thump  would  shut  it  up 
quick  enough  !  " — "  Who  from  ?  Who'll  give  it  me  ?  " 
— "  Come  and  find  out  !  " 

They  grind  their  teeth  and  approach  each  other  in  a 
foaming  rage.  Tulacque  grasps  his  prehistoric  axe,  and 
his  squinting  eyes  are  flashing.  The  other  is  pale  and 
his  eyes  have  a  greenish  glint ;  you  can  see  in  his  black- 
guard face  that  his  thoughts  are  with  his  knife. 

But  between  the  two,  as  they  grip  each  other  in  looks 
and  mangle  in  words,  Lamuse  intervenes  with  his  huge 
pacific  head,  like  a  baby's,  and  his  face  of  sanguinary 


24  UNDER  FIRE 

hue  :    "  Allans,  allons  !    You're  not  going  to  cut  your- 
selves up  !     Can't  be  allowed  !  " 

The  others  also  interpose,  and  the  antagonists  are 
separated,  but  they  continue  to  hurl  murderous  looks 
at  each  other  across  the  barrier  of  their  comrades. 
Pepin  mutters  a  residue  of  slander  in  tones  that  quiver 
with  malice — 

"  The  hooligan,  the  ruffian,  the  blackguard  !  But 
wait  a  bit  !  I'll  see  him  later  about  this  !  " 

On  the  other  side,  Tulacque  confides  in  the  poilu 
who  is  beside  him  :  "  That  crab-louse  !  Non,  but  you 
know  what  he  is  !  You  know — there's  no  more  to  be 
said.  Here,  we've  got  to  rub  along  with  a  lot  of  people 
that  we  don't  know  from  Adam.  We  know  'em  and  yet 
we  don't  know  'em ;  but  that  man,  if  he  thinks  he  can 
mess  me  about,  he'll  find  himself  up  the  wrong  street  ! 
You  wait  a  bit.  I'll  smash  him  up  one  of  these  days, 
you'll  see  !  " 

Meanwhile  the  general  conversation  is  resumed, 
drowning  the  last  twin  echoes  of  the  quarrel. 

"  It's  every  day  alike,  alors  /  "  says  Paradis  to  me ; 
"  yesterday  it  was  Plaisance  who  wanted  to  let  Fumex 
have  it  heavy  on  the  jaw,  about  God  knows  what — a 
matter  of  opium  pills,  I  think.  First  it's  one  and  then 
it's  another  that  talks  of  doing  some  one  in.  Are  we 
getting  to  be  a  lot  of  wild  animals  because  we  look 
like  'em  ?  " 

"  Mustn't  take  them  too  seriously,  these  men," 
Lamuse  declares ;  "  they're  only  kids." 

"  True  enough,  seeing  that  they're  men." 
****** 

The  day  matures.  A  little  more  light  has  trickled 
through  the  mists  that  enclose  the  earth.  But  the  sky 
has  remained  overcast,  and  now  it  dissolves  in  rain. 
With  a  slowness  which  itself  disheartens,  the  wind 
brings  back  its  great  wet  void  upon  us.  The  rain-haze 
makes  everything  clammy  and  dull — even  the  Turkey 
red  of  Lamuse's  cheeks,  and  even  the  orange  armour 
that  caparisons  Tulacque.  The  water  penetrates  to 


IN  THE  EARTH  25 

the  deep  joy  with  which  dinner  endowed  us,  and  puts 
it  out.  Space  itself  shrinks;  and  the  sky,  which  is  a 
field  of  melancholy,  comes  closely  down  upon  the  earth, 
which  is  a  field  of  death. 

We  are  still  there,  implanted  and  idle.  It  will  be 
hard  to-day  to  reach  the  end  of  it,  to  get  rid  of  the 
afternoon.  We  shiver  in  discomfort,  and  keep  shifting 
our  positions,  like  cattle  enclosed. 

Cocon  is  explaining  to  his  neighbour  the  arrangement 
and  intricacy  of  our  trenches.  He  has  seen  a  military 
map  and  made  some  calculations.  In  the  sector 
occupied  by  our  regiment  there  are  fifteen  lines  of 
French  trenches.  Some  are  abandoned,  invaded  by 
grass,  and  half  levelled ;  the  others  solidly  upkept  and 
bristling  with  men.  These  parallels  are  joined  up  by 
innumerable  galleries  which  hook  and  crook  them- 
selves like  ancient  streets.  The  system  is  much  more 
dense  than  we  believe  who  live  inside  it.  On  the  twenty- 
five  kilometres'  width  that  form  the  army  front,  one 
must  count  on  a  thousand  kilometres  of  hollowed  lines — 
trenches  and  saps  of  all  sorts.  And  the  French  Army 
consists  of  ten  such  armies.  There  are  then,  on  the 
French  side,  about  10,000  kilometres l  of  trenches, 
and  as  much  again  on  the  German  side.  And  the 
French  front  is  only  about  one-eighth  of  the  whole 
war-front  of  the  world. 

Thus  speaks  Cocon,  and  he  ends  by  saying  to  his  neigh- 
bour, "  In  all  that  lot,  you  see  what  we  are,  us  chaps?  " 

Poor  Barque's  head  droops.     His  face,  bloodless  as 
a  slum   child's,  is  underlined    by  a  red  goatee  that 
punctuates  his  hair  like  an  apostrophe  :   "  Yes,  it's  true, 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it.     What's  a  soldier,  or 
even  several  soldiers  ? — Nothing,  and  less  than  nothing,  , 
in  the  whole  crowd ;    and  so  we  see  ourselves  lost,/  / 
drowned,  like  the  few  drops  of  blood  that  we  are  among 
all  this  flood  of  men  "ana  things." 

Barque  sighs  and  is  silent,  and  the  end  of  his  discourse 
gives  a  chance  of  hearing  to  a  bit  of  jingling  narrative 
1  6250  miles. 


26  UNDER  FIRE 

told  in  an  undertone  :  "He  was  coming  along  with  two 
horses — Fs-s-s — a  shell;  and  he's  only  one  horse  left." 

"  You  get  fed  up  with  it,"  says  Volpatte. 

"  But  you  stick  it,"  growls  Barque. 

;<  You've  got  to,"  says  Paradis. 

"  Why?  "  asks  Marthereau,  without  conviction. 

"  No  need  for  a  reason,  as  long  as  we've  got  to." 

:'  There  is  no  reason,"  Lamuse  avers. 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  says  Cocon.  "  It's — or  rather, 
there  are  several." 

"  Shut  it  up  !  Much  better  to  have  no  reason,  as  long 
as  we've  got  to  stick  it." 

"  All  the  same,"  comes  the  hollow  voice  of  Blaire, 
who  lets  no  chance  slip  of  airing  his  pet  phrase — "  All 
the  same,  they'd  like  to  steal  the  very  skin  off  us  1  " 

"  At  the  beginning  of  it,"  says  Tirette,  "  I  used  to 
think  about  a  heap  of  things.  I  considered  and  cal- 
culated. Now,  I  don't  think  any  more." 

"  Nor  me  either." 

"  Nor  me." 

"  I've  never  tried  to." 

"  You're  not  such  a  fool  as  you  look,  flea-face,"  says 
the  shrill  and  jeering  voice  of  Mesnil  Andre.  Obscurely 
flattered,  the  other  develops  his  theme — 

"  To  begin  with,  you  can't  know  anything  about 
anything." 

Says  Corporal  Bertrand,  "  There's  only  one  thing 
you  need  know,  and  it's  this ;  that  the  Boches  are  here 
in  front  of  us,  deep  dug  in,  and  we've  got  to  see  that 
they  don't  get  through,  and  we've  got  to  put  'em  out, 
one  day  or  another — as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Oui,  oui,  they've  got  to  leg  it,  and  no  mistake  about 
it.  What  else  is  there  ?  Not  worth  while  to  worry 
your  head  thinking  about  anything  else.  But  it's  a 
long  job." 

An  explosion  of  profane  assent  comes  from  Fouillade, 
and  he  adds,  "  That's  what  it  is  !  " 

"  I've  given  up  grousing,"  says  Barque.  "  At  the 
beginning  of  it,  I  played  hell  with  everybody — with  the 


IN  THE  EARTH  27 

people  at  the  rear,  with  the  civilians,  with  the  natives, 
with  the  shirkers.  Yes,  I  played  hell;  but  that  was 
at  the  beginning  of  the  war — I  was  young.  Now,  I 
take  things  better." 

"  There's  only  one  way  of  taking  'em — as  they 
come  !  " 

"  Of  course !  Otherwise,  you'd  go  crazy.  We're 
dotty  enough  already,  eh,  Firmin?" 

Volpatte  assents  with  a  nod  of  profound  conviction. 
He  spits,  and  then  contemplates  his  missile  with  a  fixed 
and  unseeing  eye. 

"  You  were  saying ?  "  insists  Barque. 

"  Here,  you  haven't  got  to  look  too  far  in  front. 
You  must  live  from  day  to  day  and  from  hour  to  hour, 
as  well  as  you  can." 

"  Certain  sure,  monkey-face.  We've  got  to  do  what 
they  tell  us  to  do,  until  they  tell  us  to  go  away." 

"  That's  all,"  yawns  Mesnil  Joseph. 

Silence  follows  the  recorded  opinions  that  proceed 
from  these  dried  and  tanned  faces,  inlaid  with  dust. 
This,  evidently,  is  the  credo  of  the  men  who,  a  year  and 
a  half  ago,  left  all  the  corners  of  the  land  to  mass  them- 
selves on  the  frontier  :  Give  up  trying  to  understand, 
and  give  up  trying  to  be  yourself.  Hope  that  you  will 
not  die,  and  fight  for  life  as  well  as  you  can. 

"  Do  what  you've  got  to  do,  oui,  but  get  out  of  your 
own  messes  yourself,"  says  Barque,  as  he  slowly  stirs 
the  mud  to  and  fro. 

"  No  choice  " — Tulacque  backs  him  up.  "  If  you 
don't  get  out  of  'em  yourself,  no  one'll  do  it  for  you." 

"He's  not  yet  quite  extinct,  the  man  that  bothers 
about  the  other  fellow." 

"  Every  man  for  himself,  in  war  !  " 

"  That's  so,  that's  so." 

Silence.  Then  from  the  depth  of  their  destitution, 
these  men  summon  sweet  souvenirs — 

"  All  that,"  Barque  goes  on,  "  isn't  worth  much, 
compared  with  the  good  times  we  had  at  Soissons." 

"  Ah,  the  Devil  I  " 


28  UNDER  FIRE 

A  gleam  of  Paradise  lost  lights  up  their  eyes  and 
seems  even  to  redden  their  cold  faces. 

"  Talk  about  a  festival !  "  sighs  Tirloir,  as  he  leaves 
off  scratching  himself,  and  looks  pensively  far  away 
over  Trenchland. 

"  Ah,  nom  de  Dieu  !  All  that  town,  nearly  abandoned, 
that  used  to  be  ours  !  The  houses  and  the  beds " 

"  And  the  cupboards  !  " 

"  And  the  cellars  !  " 

Lamuse's  eyes  are  wet,  his  face  like  a  nosegay,  his 
heart  full. 

"Were  you  there  long?  "  asks  Cadilhac,  who  came 
here  later,  with  the  drafts  from  Auvergne. 

"  Several  months." 

The  conversation  had  almost  died  out,  but  it  flames 
up  again  fiercely  at  this  vision  of  the  days  of  plenty. 

"  We  used  to  see,"  said  Paradis  dreamily,  "  the  poilus 
pouring  along  and  behind  the  houses  on  the  way  back  to 
camp  with  fowls  hung  round  their  middles,  and  a  rabbit 
under  each  arm,  borrowed  from  some  good  fellow  or 
woman  that  they  hadn't  seen  and  won't  ever  see  again." 

We  reflect  on  the  far-off  flavour  of  chicken  and  rabbit. 

"  There  were  things  that  we  paid  for,  too.  The 
spondulicks  just  danced  about.  We  held  all  the  aces 
in  those  days." 

"  A  hundred  thousand  francs  went  rolling  round  the 
shops." 

"  Millions,  out.  All  the  day,  just  a  squandering  that 
you've  no  idea  of,  a  sort  of  devil's  delight." 

"  Believe  me  or  not,"  said  Blaire  to  Cadilhac,  "  but 
in  the  middle  of  it  all,  what  we  had  the  least  of  was 
fires,  just  like  here  and  everywhere  else  you  go.  You 
had  to  chase  it  and  find  it  and  stick  to  it.  Ah,  mon 
vieux,  how  we  did  run  after  the  kindlings  !  " 

"  Well,  we  were  in  the  camp  of  the  C.H.R.  The  cook 
there  was  the  great  Martin  Cesar.  He  was  the  man  for 
finding  wood  !  " 

"  Ah,  oui,  oui !  He  was  the  ace  of  trumps  !  He 
got  what  he  wanted  without  twisting  himself." 


IN  THE  EARTH  29 

"  Always  some  fire  in  his  kitchen,  young  fellow. 
You  saw  cooks  chasing  and  gabbling  about  the  streets 
in  all  directions,  blubbering  because  they  had  no  coal 
or  wood.  But  he'd  got  a  fire.  When  he  hadn't  any, 
he  said,  '  Don't  worry,  /'//  see  you  through.'  And  he 
wasn't  long  about  it,  either." 

"  He  went  a  bit  too  far,  even.  The  first  tune  I  saw 
him  in  his  kitchen,  you'd  never  guess  what  he'd  got 
the  stew  going  with  !  With  a  violin  that  he'd  found  in 
the  house  !  " 

"  Rotten,  all  the  same,"  says  Mesnil  Andre.  "  One 
knows  well  enough  that  a  violin  isn't  worth  much  when 
it  comes  to  utility,  but  all  the  same " 

"  Other  times,  he  used  billiard  cues.  Zizi  just 
succeeded  in  pinching  one  for  a  cane,  but  the  rest — 
into  the  fire  !  Then  the  arm-chairs  in  the  drawing-room 
went  by  degrees — mahogany,  they  were.  He  did  'em 
in  and  cut  them  up  by  night,  case  some  N.C.O.  had 
something  to  say  about  it." 

"  He  knew  his  way  about,"  said  Pepin.  "  As  for  us, 
we  got  busy  with  an  old  suite  of  furniture  that  lasted 
us  a  fortnight." 

"  And  what  for  should  we  be  without  ?  You've  got  to 
make  dinner,  and  there's  no  wood  or  coal.  After  the 
grub's  served  out,  there  you  are  with  your  jaws  empty, 
with  a  pile  of  meat  in  front  of  you,  and  in  the  middle  of 
a  lot  of  pals  that  chaff  and  bullyrag  you  !  " 

"  It's  the  War  Office's  doing,  it  isn't  ours." 

"  Hadn't  the  officers  a  lot  to  say  about  the  pinching  ?  " 

"  They  damn  well  did  it  themselves,  I  give  you  my 
word  !  Desmaisons,  do  you  remember  Lieutenant 
Virvin's  trick,  breaking  down  a  cellar  door  with  an  axe  ? 
And  when  a  poilu  saw  him  at  it,  he  gave  him  the  door 
for  firewood,  so  that  he  wouldn't  spread  it  about." 

"  And  poor  old  Saladin,  the  transport  officer.  He 
was  found  coming  out  of  a  basement  in  the  dusk  with 
two  bottles  of  white  wine  in  each  arm,  the  sport,  like  a 
nurse  with  two  pairs  of  twins.  When  he  was  spotted, 
they  made  him  go  back  down  to  the  wine-cellar,  and 


30  UNDER  FIRE 

serve  out  bottles  for  everybody.  But  Corporal  Bertrand, 
who  is  a  man  of  scruples,  wouldn't  have  any.  Ah, 
you  remember  that,  do  you,  sausage -foot  !  " 

"  Where's  that  cook  now  that  always  found  wood?  " 
asks  Cadilhac. 

"  He's  dead.  A  bomb  fell  in  his  stove.  He  didn't 
get  it,  but  he's  dead  all  the  same — died  of  shock  when 
he  saw  his  macaroni  with  its  legs  in  the  air.  Heart 
seizure,  so  the  doc'  said.  His  heart  was  weak — he  was 
only  strong  on  wood.  They  gave  him  a  proper  funeral — 
made  him  a  coffin  out  of  the  bedroom  floor,  and  got  the 
picture  nails  out  of  the  walls  to  fasten  'em  together, 
and  used  bricks  to  drive  'em  in.  While  they  were 
carrying  him  off,  I  thought  to  myself,  '  Good  thing  for 
him  he's  dead.  If  he  saw  that,  he'd  never  be  able  to 
forgive  himself  for  not  having  thought  of  the  bedroom 
floor  for  his  fire.' — Ah,  what  the  devil  are  you  doing,  son 
of  a  pig?  " 

Volpatte  offers  philosophy  on  the  rude  intrusion  of 
a  passing  fatigue  party  :  "  The  private  gets  along  on 
the  back  of  his  pals.  When  you  spin  your  yarns  in 
front  of  a  fatigue  gang,  or  when  you  take  the  best  bit 
or  the  best  place,  it's  the  others  that  suffer." 

"  I've  often,"  says  Lamuse,  "  put  up  dodges  so  as 
not  to  go  into  the  trenches,  and  it's  come  off  no  end  of 
times.  I  own  up  to  that.  But  when  my  pals  are  in 
danger,  I'm  not  a  dodger  any  more.  I  forget  discipline 
and  everything  else.  I  see  men,  and  I  go.  But  other- 
wise, my  boy,  I  look  after  my  little  self." 

Lamuse 's  claims  are  not  idle  words.  He  is  an  admitted 
expert  at  loafing,  but  all  the  same  he  has  brought 
wounded  in  under  fire  and  saved  their  lives.  Without 
any  brag,  he  relates  the  deed — 

"  We  were  all  lying  on  the  grass,  and  having  a  hot 
time.  Crack,  crack  !  Whizz,  whizz !  When  I  saw 
them  downed,  I  got  up,  though  they  yelled  at  me,  '  Get 
down  !  '  Couldn't  leave  'em  like  that.  Nothing  to 
make  a  song  about,  seeing  I  couldn't  do  anything  else." 

Nearly  all  the  boys  of  the  squad  have  some  high  deed 


IN  THE  EARTH  31 

of  arms  to  their  credit,  and  the  Croix  de  Guerre  has  been 
successively  set  upon  their  breasts. 

"  I  haven't  saved  any  Frenchmen,"  says  Biquet, 
"  but  I've  given  some  Bodies  the  bitter  pill."  In  the 
May  attacks,  he  ran  off  in  advance  and  was  seen  to 
disappear  in  the  distance,  but  came  back  with  four  fine 
fellows  in  helmets. 

"  I,  too,"  says  Tulacque,  "  I've  killed  some."  Two 
months  ago,  with  quaint  vanity,  he  laid  out  nine  in  a 
straight  row,  in  front  of  the  taken  trench.  "  But," 
he  adds,  "  it's  always  the  Boche  officer  that  I'm  after." 

"  Ah,  the  beasts  !  "  The  curse  comes  from  several 
men  at  once  and  from  the  bottom  of  their  hearts. 

"  Ah,  mon  vieux,"  says  lirloir,  "  we  talk  about  the 
dirty  Boche  race ;  but  as  for  the  common  soldier,  I  don't 
know  if  it's  true  or  whether  we're  codded  about  that 
as  well,  and  if  at  bottom  they're  not  men  pretty  much 
like  us." 

"  Probably  they're  men  like  us,"  says  Eudore. 

"  Perhaps  !  "  cries  Cocon,  "  and  perhaps  not." 

"  Anyway,"  Tirloir  goes  on,  "  we've  not  got  a  dead 
set  on  the  men,  but  on  the  German  officers ;  non,  non, 
non,  they're  not  men,  they're  monsters.  I  tell  you, 
they're  really  a  specially  filthy  sort  o'  vermin.  One 
might  say  that  they're  the  microbes  of  the  war.  You 
ought  to  see  them  close  to — the  infernal  great  stiff-backs, 
thin  as  nails,  though  they've  got  calf -heads." 

"  And  snouts  like  snakes." 

Tirloir  continues  :  "I  saw  one  once,  a  prisoner,  as  I 
came  back  from  liaison.  The  beastly  bastard !  A 
Prussian  colonel,  that  wore  a  prince's  crown,  so  they 
told  me,  and  a  gold  coat -of -arms.  He  was  mad  because 
we  took  leave  to  graze  against  him  when  they  were 
bringing  him  back  along  the  communication  trench, 
and  he  looked  down  on  everybody — like  that.  I  said 
to  myself,  '  Wait  a  bit,  old  cock,  I'll  make  you  rattle 
directly  ! '  I  took  my  time  and  squared  up  behind  him, 
and  kicked  into  his  tailpiece  with  all  my  might,  I  tell 
you,  he  fell  down  half-strangled." 


32  UNDER  FIRE 

"Strangled?" 

"  Yes,  with  rage,  when  it  dawned  on  him  that  the 
rump  of  an  officer  and  nobleman  had  been  bust  in 
by  the  hob-nailed  socks  of  a  poor  private  !  He  went 
off  chattering  like  a  woman  and  wriggling  like  an 
epileptic " 

"  I'm  not  spiteful  myself,"  says  Blaire,  "  I've  got 
kiddies.  And  it  worries  me,  too,  at  home,  when  I've 
got  to  kill  a  pig  that  I  know — but  those,  I  shall  run  'em 
through — Bing  ! — full  in  the  linen-cupboard." 

"  I,  too." 

"  Not  to  mention,"  says  Pepin,  "  that  they've  got 
silver  hats,  and  pistols  that  you  can  get  four  quid  for 
whenever  you  like,  and  field-glasses  that  simply  haven't 
got  a  price.  Ah,  bad  luck,  what  a  lot  of  chances  I  let 
slip  in  the  early  part  of  the  campaign  !  I  was  too  much 
of  a  beginner  then,  and  it  serves  me  right.  But  don't 
worry,  I  shall  get  a  silver  hat.  Mark  my  words,  I  swear 
I'll  have  one.  I  must  have  not  only  the  skin  of  one  of 
Wilhelm's  red-tabs,  but  his  togs  as  well.  Don't  fret 
yourself;  I'll  fasten  on  to  that  before  the  war  ends." 
1  You  think  it'll  have  an  end,  then  ?  "  asks  some  one. 

"  Don't  worry  !  "  replies  the  other. 

****** 

Meanwhile,  a  hubbub  has  arisen  to  the  right  of  us, 
and  suddenly  a  moving  and  buzzing  group  appears,  in 
which  dark  and  bright  forms  mingle. 

"  What's  all  that  ?  " 

Biquet  has  ventured  on  a  reconnaissance,  and  returns 
contemptuously  pointing  with  his  thumb  towards  the 
motley  mass  :  "  Eh,  boys  !  Come  and  have  a  squint 
at  them  !  Some  people  !  " 

"  Some  people  ?  " 

"  Oui,  some  gentlemen,  look  you.  Civvies,  with  Staff 
officers." 

"  Civilians  !     Let's  hope  they'll  stick  it  !  "  x 

1  Pourvu  quf  les  civils  tiennent.  In  the  early  days  of  the  war 
it  was  a  common  French  saying  that  victory  was  certain — "  if 
the  civilians  hold  out." — Tr. 


IN  THE  EARTH  33 

It  is  the  sacramental  saying  and  evokes  laughter, 
although  we  have  heard  it  a  hundred  times,  and  although 
the  soldier  has  rightly  or  wrongly  perverted  the  original 
meaning  and  regards  it  as  an  ironical  reflection  on  his 
life  of  privations  and  peril. 

Two  Somebodies  come  up;  two  Somebodies  with 
overcoats  and  canes.  Another  is  dressed  in  a  sporting 
suit,  adorned  with  a  plush  hat  and  binoculars.  Pale 
blue  tunics,  with  shining  belts  of  fawn  colour  or  patent 
leather,  follow  and  steer  the  civilians. 

With  an  arm  where  a  brassard  glitters  in  gold-edged 
silk  and  golden  ornament,  a  captain  indicates  the 
firing-step  in  front  of  an  old  emplacement  and  invites 
the  visitors  to  get  up  and  try  it.  The  gentleman 
in  the  touring  suit  clambers  up  with  the  aid  of  his 
umbrella. 

Says  Barque,  "  You've  seen  the  station-master  at  the 
Gare  du  Nord,  all  in  his  Sunday  best,  and  opening  the 
door  of  a  first-class  compartment  for  a  rich  sportsman 
on  the  first  day  of  the  shooting  ?  With  his  '  Montez, 
monsieur  le  Proprietaire  !  '  — you  know,  when  the  toffs 
are  all  togged  up  in  brand-new  outfits  and  leathers  and 
ironmongery,  and  showing  off  with  all  their  paraphernalia 
for  killing  poor  little  animals  !  " 

Three  or  four  poilus  who  were  quite  without  their 
accoutrements  have  disappeared  underground.  The 
others  sit  as  though  paralysed.  Even  the  pipes  go  out, 
and  nothing  is  heard  but  the  babble  of  talk  exchanged 
by  the  officers  and  their  guests. 

"  Trench  tourists,"  says  Barque  in  an  undertone, 
and  then  louder — "  This  way,  mesdames  et  messieurs  " — 
in  the  manner  of  the  moment. 

"  Chuck  it  !  "  whispers  Farfadet,  fearing  that  Barque's 
malicious  tongue  will  draw  the  attention  of  the  potent 
personages. 

Some  heads  in  the  group  are  now  turned  our  way. 
One  gentleman  who  detaches  himself  and  comes  up 
wears  a  soft  hat  and  a  loose  tie.  He  has  a  white  billy- 
goat  beard,  and  might  be  an  artiste.  Another  follows 
D 


34  UNDER  FIRE 

him,  wearing  a  black  overcoat,  a  black  bowler  hat,  a 
black  beard,  a  white  tie  and  an  eyeglass. 

"  Ah,  ah  !  There  are  some  poilus,"  says  the  first 
gentleman.  "  These  are  real  poilus,  indeed." 

He  comes  up  to  our  party  a  little  timidly,  as  though 
in  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  offers  his  hand  to  the 
one  who  is  nearest  to  him — not  without  awkwardness, 
as  one  offers  a  piece  of  bread  to  the  elephant. 

"He,  he  !     They  are  drinking  coffee/'  he  remarks. 

"  They  call  it  '  the  juice/  "  corrects  the  magpie-man. 

"Is  it  good,  my  friends  ?  "  The  soldier,  abashed  in 
his  turn  by  this  alien  and  unusual  visitation,  grunts, 
giggles,  and  reddens,  and  the  gentleman  says,  "  He, 
he  !  "  Then,  with  a  slight  motion  of  the  head,  he  with- 
draws backwards. 

The  assemblage,  with  its  neutral  shades  of  civilian 
cloth  and  its  sprinkling  of  bright  military  hues — like 
geraniums  and  hortensias  in  the  dark  soil  of  a  flower- 
bed— oscillates,  then  passes,  and  moves  off  the  opposite 
way  it  came.  One  of  the  officers  was  heard  to  say, 
"  We  have  yet  much  to  see,  messieurs  les  journalistes." 

When  the  radiant  spectacle  has  faded  away,  we  look 
at  each  other.  Those  who  had  fled  into  the  funk-holes 
now  gradually  and  head  first  disinter  themselves.  The 
group  recovers  itself  and  shrugs  its  shoulders. 

"  They're  journalists,"  says  Tirette. 

"  Journalists  ?  " 

"  Why  yes,  the  individuals  that  lay  the  newspapers. 
You  don't  seem  to  catch  on,  fathead.  Newspapers 
must  have  chaps  to  write  'em." 

"  Then  it's  those  that  stuff  up  our  craniums?  "  says 
Marthereau. 

Barque  assumes  a  shrill  treble,  and  pretending  that 
he  has  a  newspaper  in  front  of  his  nose,  recites— 

"  '  The  Crown  Prince  is  mad,  after  having  been  killed 
at  the  beginning  of  the  campaign,  and  meanwhile  he 
has  all  the  diseases  you  can  name.  William  will  die 
this  evening,  and  again  to-morrow.  The  Germans 
have  no  more  munitions  and  are  chewing  wood.  They 


IN  THE  EARTH  35 

cannot  hold  out,  according  to  the  most  authoritative 
calculations,  beyond  the  end  of  the  week.  We  can 
have  them  when  we  like,  with  their  rifles  slung.  If 
one  can  wait  a  few  days  longer,  there  will  be  no  desire 
to  forsake  the  life  of  the  trenches.  One  is  so  comfortable 
there,  with  water  and  gas  laid  on,  and  shower-baths 
at  every  step.  The  only  drawback  is  that  it  is  rather 
too  hot  in  winter.  As  for  the  Austrians,  they  gave  in 
a  long  time  since  and  are  only  pretending.'  For  fifteen 
months  now  it's  been  like  that,  and  you  can  hear  the 
editor  saying  to  his  scribes,  '  Now,  boys,  get  into  it  ! 
Find  some  way  of  brushing  that  up  again  for  me  in  five 
sees,  and  make  it  spin  out  all  over  those  four  damned 
white  sheets  that  we've  got  to  mucky.'  ' 

"  Ah,  yes  !  "  says  Fouillade. 

"  Look  here,  corporal;  you're  making  fun  of  it — isn't 
it  true  what  I  said  ?  " 

"  There's  a  little  truth  in  it,  but  you're  too  slashing 
on  the  poor  boys,  and  you'd  be  the  first  to  make  a  song 
about  it  if  you  had  to  go  without  papers.  Oui,  when  the 
paper-man's  going  by,  why  do  you  all  shout,  '  Here, 
here  '  ?  " 

"  And  what  good  can  you  get  out  of  them  all?  "  cries 
Papa  Blaire.  "  Read  'em  by  the  tubful  if  you  like,  but 
do  the  same  as  me — don't  believe  'em  !  " 

"  Oui,  oui,  that's  enough  about  them.  Turn  the 
page  over,  donkey-nose." 

The  conversation  is  breaking  up ;  interest  in  it  follows 
suit  and  is  scattered.  Four  poilus  join  in  a  game  of 
manille,  that  will  last  until  night  blacks  out  the  cards. 
Volpatte  is  trying  to  catch  a  leaf  of  cigarette  paper 
that  has  escaped  his  fingers  and  goes  hopping  and 
dodging  in  the  wind  along  the  wall  of  the  trench  like  a 
fragile  butterfly. 

Cocon  and  Tirette  are  recalling  their  memories  of 
barrack-life.  The  impressions  left  upon  their  minds 
by  those  years  of  military  training  are  ineffaceable. 
Into  that  fund  of  abundant  souvenirs,  of  abiding  colour 
and  instant  service,  they  have  been  wont  to  dip  for  their 


36  UNDER  FIRE 

subjects  of  conversation  for  ten,  fifteen,  or  twenty  years. 
So  that  they  still  frequent  it,  even  after  a  year  and  a 
half  of  actual  war  in  all  its  forms. 

I  can  hear  some  of  the  talk  and  guess  the  rest  of  it. 
For  it  is  everlastingly  the  same  sort  of  tale  that  they 
get  out  of  their  military  past ; — the  narrator  once  shut 
up  a  bad-tempered  N.C.O.  with  words  of  extreme  appro- 
priateness and  daring.  He  wasn't  afraid,  he  spoke  out 
loud  and  strong  !  Some  scraps  of  it  reach  my  ears — 

"  Alors,  d'you  think  I  flinched  when  Nenoeil  said  that 
to  me?  Not  a  bit,  my  boy.  All  the  pals  kept  their 
jaws  shut  but  me ;  I  spoke  up,  '  Mon  adjudant'  I  says, 

'  it's   possible,  but '  ';     A  sentence   follows  that   I 

cannot  secure — "  Oh,  tu  sais,  just  like  that,  I  said  it.  He 
didn't  get  shirty ;  '  Good,  that's  good,'  he  says  as  he  hops 
it,  and  afterwards  he  was  as  good  as  all  that,  with  me." 

"  Just  like  me,  with  Dodo  re,  'jutant  of  the  I3th, 
when  I  was  on  leave — a  mongrel.  Now  he's  at  the 
Pantheon,  as  caretaker.  He'd  got  it  in  for  me,  so " 

So  each  unpacks  his  own  little  load  of  historical 
anecdote.  They  are  all  alike,  and  not  one  of  them  but 
says,  "  As  for  me,  I  am  not  like  the  others." 

*  *  *  *  « 

The  post-orderly  !  He  is  a  tall  and  broad  man  with 
fat  calves;  comfortable  looking,  and  as  neat  and  tidy 
as  a  policeman.  He  is  in  a  bad  temper.  There  are  new 
orders,  and  now  he  has  to  go  every  day  as  far  as  Battalion 
Headquarters.  He  abuses  the  order  as  if  it  had  been 
directed  exclusively  against  himself;  and  he  continues 
to  complain  even  while  he  calls  up  the  corporals  for  the 
post  and  maintains  his  customary  chat  en  passant  with 
this  man  and  that.  And  in  spite  of  his  spleen  he  does 
not  keep  to  himself  all  the  information  with  which  he 
comes  provided.  While  removing  the  string  from  the 
letter-packets  he  dispenses  his  verbal  news,  and  an- 
nounces first,  that  according  to  rumour,  there  is  a  very 
explicit  ban  on  the  wearing  of  hoods. 

"Hear  that?"  says  Tirette  to  Tirloir.  "Got  to 
chuck  your  fine  hood  away  !  " 


IN  THE  EARTH  37 

"  Not  likely  !  I'm  not  on.  That's  nothing  to  do 
with  me,"  replies  the  hooded  one,  whose  pride  no  less 
than  his  comfort  is  at  stake. 

"  Order  of  the  General  Commanding  the  Army." 

"  Then  let  the  General  give  an  order  that  it's  not  to 
rain  any  more.  I  want  to  know  nothing  about  it." 

The  majority  of  Orders,  even  when  less  peculiar  than 
this  one,  are  always  received  in  this  way — and  then 
carried  out. 

"  There's  a  reported  order  as  well,"  says  the  man  of 
letters,  "  that  beards  have  got  to  be  trimmed  and  hair 
got  to  be  clipped  close." 

"  Talk  on,  my  lad,"  says  Barque,  on  whose  head  the 
threatened  order  directly  falls;  "you  didn't  see  me! 
You  can  draw  the  curtains  !  " 

"  I'm  telling  you.  Do  it  or  don't  do  it — doesn't 
matter  a  damn  to  me." 

Besides  what  is  real  and  written,  there  is  bigger  news, 
but  still  more  dubious  and  imaginative — the  division 
is  going  to  be  relieved,  and  sent  either  to  rest — real 
rest,  for  six  weeks — or  to  Morocco,  or  perhaps  to  Egypt. 

Divers  exclamations.  They  listen,  and  let  them- 
selves be  tempted  by  the  fascination  of  the  new,  the 
wonderful. 

But  some  one  questions  the  post-orderly  :  "  Who  told 
you  that?  " 

"  The  adjutant  commanding  the  Territorial  detach- 
ment that  fatigues  for  the  H.Q.  of  the  A.C." 

"  For  the  what?" 

"  For  Headquarters  of  the  Army  Corps,  and  he's  not 
the  only  one  that  says  it.  There's — you  know  him — 
I've  forgotten  his  name — he's  like  Galle,  but  he  isn't 
Galle — there's  some  one  in  his  family  who  is  Some  One. 
Anyway,  he  knows  all  about  it." 

"Then  what?"  With  hungry  eyes  they  form  a 
circle  around  the  story-teller. 

"  Egypt,  you  say,  we  shall  go  to  ?  Don't  know  it. 
I  know  there  were  Pharaohs  there  at  the  time  when  I 
was  a  kid  and  went  to  school,  but  since " 


3»  UNDER  FIRE 

"  To  Egypt  !  "  The  idea  finds  unconscious  anchorage 
in  their  minds. 

"Ah,  non,"  says  Blaire,  "for  I  get  sea-sick.  Still, 
it  doesn't  last,  sea-sickness.  Oui,  but  what  would  my 
good  lady  say?  " 

"What  about  it?  She'll  get  used  to  it.  You  see 
niggers,  and  streets  full  of  big  birds,  like  we  see  sparrows 
here." 

"  But  haven't  we  to  go  to  Alsace  ?  " 

"  Yes,'*  says  the  post-orderly,  "  there  are  some  who 
think  so  at  the  Pay-office." 

"  That'd  do  me  well  enough." 

But  common  sense  and  acquired  experience  regain 
the  upper  hand  and  put  the  visions  to  flight.  We 
have  been  told  so  often  that  we  were  going  a  long  way 
off,  so  often  have  wre  believed  it,  so  often  been  un- 
deceived !  So,  as  if  at  a  moment  arranged,  we  wake 
up. 

"  It's  all  my  eye — they've  done  it  on  us  too  often. 
Wait  before  believing — and  don't  count  a  crumb's- 
worth  on  it." 

We  reoccupy  our  corner.  Here  and  there  a  man 
bears  in  his  hand  the  light  momentous  burden  of  a 
letter. 

"  Ah,"  says  Tirloir,  "  I  must  be  writing.  Can't  go 
eight  days  without  writing." 

"  Me  too,"  says  Eudore,  "  I  must  write  to  my  p'tif 
femme." 

"  Is  she  all  right,  Marie tte  ?  " 

"  Oui,  oui,  don't  fret  about  Mariette." 

A  few  have  already  settled  themselves  for  corre- 
spondence. Barque  is  standing  up.  He  stoops  over  a 
sheet  of  paper  flattened  on  a  note-book  upon  a  jutting 
crag  in  the  trench  wall.  Apparently  in  tlie  grip  of  an 
inspiration,  he  writes  on  and  on,  with  his  eyes  in  bond- 
age and  the  concentrated  expression  of  a  horseman  at 
full  gallop. 

When  once  Lamuse — who  lacks  imagination — has  sat 
down,  placed  his  little  writing-block  on  the  padded 


IN  THE  EARTH  39 

summit  of  his  knees,  and  moistened  his  copying-ink 
pencil,  he  passes  the  time  in  reading  again  the  last 
letters  received,  in  wondering  what  he  can  say  that  he 
has  not  already  said,  and  in  fostering  a  grim  deter- 
mination to  say  something  else. 

A  sentimental  gentleness  seems  to  have  overspread 
little  Eudore,  who  is  curled  up  in  a  sort  of  niche  in 
the  ground.  He  is  lost  in  meditation,  pencil  in  hand, 
eyes  on  paper.  Dreaming,  he  looks  and  stares  and 
sees.  It  is  another  sky  that  lends  him  light,  another 
to  which  his  vision  reaches.  He  has  gone  home. 

In  this  time  of  letter-writing,  the  men  reveal  the 
most  and  the  best  that  they  ever  were.  Several  others 
surrender  to  the  past,  and  its  first  expression  is  to  talk 
once  more  of  fleshly  comforts. 

Through  their  outer  crust  of  coarseness  and  conceal- 
ment, other  hearts  venture  upon  murmured  memories, 
and  the  rekindling  of  bygone  brightness  :  the  summer 
morning,  when  the  green  freshness  of  the  garden  steals 
in  upon  the  purity  of  the  country  bedroom ;  or  when 
the  wind  in  the  wheat  of  the  level  lands  sets  it  slowly 
stirring  or  deeply  waving,  and  shakes  the  square  of 
oats  hard  by  into  quick  little  feminine  tremors;  or 
the  winter  evening,  with  women  and  their  gentleness 
around  the  shaded  lustre  of  the  lamp. 

But  Papa  Blaire  resumes  work  upon  the  ring  he  has 
begun.  He  has  threaded  the  still  formless  disc  of 
aluminium  over  a  bit  of  rounded  wood,  and  rubs  it 
with  the  file.  As  he  applies  himself  to  the  job,  two 
wrinkles  of  mighty  meditation  deepen  upon  his  fore- 
head. Anon  he  stops,  straightens  himself,  and  looks 
tenderly  at  the  trifle,  as  though  she  also  were  looking 
at  it. 

"  You  know,"  he  said  to  me  once,  speaking  of  another 
ring,  "  it's  not  a  question  of  doing  it  well  or  not  well. 
The  point  is  that  I've  done  it  for  my  wife,  d'you  see  ? 
When  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  scratch  myself,  I  used 
to  have  a  look  at  this  photo  " — he  showed  me  a  photo- 
graph of  a  big,  chubby-faced  woman — "  and  then  it 


40  UNDER  FIRE 

was  quite  easy  to  set  about  this  damned  ring.  You 
might  say  that  we've  made  it  together,  see  ?  The 
proof  of  that  is  that  it  was  company  for  me,  and  that 
I  said  Adieu  to  it  when  I  sent  it  off  to  Mother  Blaire." 

He  is  making  another  just  now,  and  this  one  will 
have  copper  in  it,  too.  He  works  eagerly.  His  heart 
would  fain  express  itself  to  the  best  advantage  in  this 
the  sort  of  penmanship  upon  which  he  is  so  tenaciously 
bent. 

As  they  stoop  reverently,  in  their  naked  earth-holes, 
over  the  slender  rudimentary  trinkets — so  tiny  that 
the  great  hide-bound  hands  hold  them  with  difficulty 
or  let  them  fall — these  men  seem  still  more  wild,  more 
primitive,  and  more  human,  than  at  all  other  times. 

You  are  set  thinking  of  the  first  inventor,  the  father 
of  all  craftsmen,  who  sought  to  invest  enduring  materials 
with  the  shapes  of  what  he  saw  and  the  spirit  of  what 
he  felt. 

****** 

"  People  coming  along,"  announces  Biquet  the 
mobile,  who  acts  as  hall- porter  to  our  section  of  the 
trench — "  buckets  of  'em."  Immediately  an  adjutant 
appears,  with  straps  round  his  belly  and  his  chin,  and 
brandishing  his  sword-scabbard. 

"  Out  of  the  way,  you  !  Out  of  the  way,  I  tell 
you  !  You  loafers  there,  out  of  it  !  Let  me  see  you 
quit,  hey !  " 

We  make  way  indolently.  Those  at  the  sides  push 
back  into  the  earth  by  slow  degrees. 

It  is  a  company  of  Territorials,  deputed  to  our  sector 
for  the  fortification  of  the  second  line  and  the  upkeep 
of  its  communication  trenches.  They  come  into  view 
— miserable  bundles  of  implements,  and  dragging  their 
feet. 

We  watch  them,  one  by  one,  as  they  come  up,  pass, 
and  disappear.  They  are  stunted  and  elderly,  with 
dusty  faces,  or  big  and  broken-winded,  tightly  enfolded 
in  greatcoats  stained  and  over-worn,  that  yawn  at  the 
toothless  gaps  where  the  buttons  are  missing. 


IN  THE  EARTH  41 

Tirette  and  Barque,  the  twin  wags,  leaning  close 
together  against  the  wall,  stare  at  them,  at  first  in  silence. 
Then  they  begin  to  smile. 

"  March  past  of  the  Broom  Brigade/'  says  Tirette. 

"  We'll  have  a  bit  of  fun  for  three  minutes,"  an- 
nounces Barque. 

Some  of  the  old  toilers  are  comical.  This  one  whom 
the  file  brings  up  has  bottle-shaped  shoulders.  Although 
extremely  narrow-chested  and  spindle-shanked,  he  is 
pig-bellied.  He  is  too  much  for  Barque.  "  Hullo,  Sir 
Canteen  !  "  he  says. 

When  a  more  outrageously  patched-up  greatcoat 
appears  than  all  the  others  can  show,  Tirette  questions 
the  veteran  recruit.  "  Hey,  Father  Samples  !  Hey, 
you  there  !  "  he  insists. 

The  other  turns  and  looks  at  him,  open-mouthed. 

"  Say  there,  papa,  if  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  give  me 
the  address  of  your  tailor  in  London  !  " 

A  chuckle  comes  from  the  antiquated  and  wrinkle- 
scrawled  face,  and  then  the  poilu,  checked  for  an 
instant  by  Barque's  command,  is  jostled  by  the  following 
flood  and  swept  away. 

When  some  less  striking  figures  have  gone  past,  a 
new  victim  is  provided  for  the  jokers.  On  his  red  and 
wrinkled  neck  luxuriates  some  dirty  sheep's-wool. 
W7ith  knees  bent,  his  body  forward,  his  back  bowed, 
this  Territorial's  carriage  is  the  worst. 

"  Tiens  !  "  bawls  Tirette,  with  pointed  finger,  "  the 
famous  concertina-man  !  It  would  cost  you  some- 
thing to  see  him  at  the  fair — here,  he's  free  gratis  !  " 

The  victim  stammers  responsive  insults  amid  the 
scattered  laughter  that  arises. 

No  more  than  that  laughter  is  required  to  excite  the 
two  comrades.  It  is  the  ambition  to  have  their  jests 
voted  funny  by  their  easy  audience  that  stimulates 
them  to  mock  the  peculiarities  of  their  old  comrades- 
in-arms,  of  those  who  toil  night  and  day  on  the  brink 
of  the  great  war  to  make  ready  and  make  good  the 
fields  of  battle. 


42  UNDER  FIRE 

And  even  the  other  watchers  join  in.  Miserable 
themselves,  they  scoff  at  the  still  more  miserable. 

"  Look  at  that  one  !     And  that,  look  !  " 

"  Non,  but  take  me  a  snapshot  of  that  little  rump- 
end  !  Hey,  earth-worm  !  " 

"  And  that  one  that  has  no  ending  !  Talk  about  a 
sky-scratcher  !  Tiens,  la,  he  takes  the  biscuit.  Yes, 
you  take  it,  old  chap  !  " 

This  man  goes  with  little  steps,  and  holds  his  pickaxe 
up  in  front  like  a  candle ;  his  face  is  withered,  and  his 
body  borne  down  by  the  blows  of  lumbago. 

"  Like  a  penny,  gran'pa?  "  Barque  asks  him,  as  he 
passes  within  reach  of  a  tap  on  the  shoulder. 

The  broken-down  poilu  replies  with  a  great  oath  of 
annoyance,  and  provokes  the  harsh  rejoinder  of  Barque  : 
"  Come  now,  you  might  be  polite,  filthy-face,  old  muck- 
mill  !  " 

Turning  right  round  in  fury,  the  old  one  defies  his 
tormentor. 

"  Hullo  !  "  cries  Barque,  laughing,  "  he's  showing 
fight ;  the  ruin  !  He's  warlike,  look  you,  and  he 
might  be  mischievous  if  only  he  were  sixty  years 
younger !  " 

"  And  if  he  wasn't  alone,"  wantonly  adds  Pepiri, 
whose  eye  is  in  quest  of  other  targets  among  the  flow 
of  new  arrivals. 

The  hollow  chest  of  the  last  straggler  appears,  and 
then  his  distorted  back  disappears. 

The  march  past  of  the  worn-out  and  trench-foul 
veterans  comes  to  an  end  among  the  ironical  and 
almost  malevolent  faces  of  these  sinister  troglodytes, 
whom  their  caverns  of  mud  but  half  reveal. 

Meanwhile,  the  hours  slip  away,  and  evening  begins 
to  veil  the  sky  and  darken  the  things  of  earth.  It 
comes  to  blend  itself  at  once  with  the  blind  fate  and  the 
ignorant  dark  minds  of  the  multitude  there  enshrouded. 

Through  the  twilight  comes  the  rolling  hum  of 
tramping  men,  and  another  throng  rubs  its  way  through. 

"  Africans !  " 


IN  THE  EARTH 


43 


They  march  past  with  faces  red-brown,  yellow  or 
chestnut,  their  beards  scanty  and  fine  or  thick  and 
frizzled,  their  greatcoats  yellowish-green,  and  their 
muddy  helmets  sporting  the  crescent  in  place  of  our 
grenade.  Their  eyes  are  like  balls  of  ivory  or  onyx, 
that  shine  from  faces  like  new  pennies,  flattened  or 
angular.  Now  and  again  comes  swaying  along  above 
the  line  the  coal-black  mask  of  a  Senegalese  sharp- 
shooter. Behind  the  company  goes  a  red  flag  with  a 
green  hand  in  the  centre. 

We  watch  them  in  silence.  These  are  asked  no 
questions.  They  command  respect,  and  even  a  little 
fear. 

All  the  same,  these  Africans  seem  jolly  and  in  high 
spirits.  They  are  going,  of  course,  to  the  first  line. 
That  is  their  place,  and  their  passing  is  the  sign  of  an 
imminent  attack.  They  are  made  for  the  offensive. 

"  Those  and  the  75  gun  we  can  take  our  hats  off  to. 
They're  everywhere  sent  ahead  at  big  moments,  the 
Moroccan  Division." 

"  They  can't  quite  fit  in  with  us.  They  go  too  fast — 
and  there's  no  way  of  stopping  them." 

Some  of  these  diabolical  images  in  yellow  wood  or 
bronze  or  ebony  are  serious  of  mien,  uneasy,  and  taci- 
turn. Their  faces  have  the  disquieting  and  secret  look 
of  the  snare  suddenly  discovered.  The  others  laugh 
with  a  laugh  that  jangles  like  fantastic  foreign  instru- 
ments of  music,  a  laugh  that  bares  the  teeth. 

We  talk  over  the  characteristics  of  these  Africans; 
their  ferocity  in  attack,  their  devouring  passion  to  be 
in  with  the  bayonet,  their  predilection  for  "  no  quarter." 
We  recall  those  tales  that  they  themselves  willingly 
tell,  all  in  much  the  same  words  and  with  the  same 
gestures.  They  raise  their  arms  over  their  heads — 
"  Kam'rad,  Kam'rad  !  "  "  Non,  pas  Kam'rad  !  "  And 
in  pantomime  they  drive  a  bayonet  forward,  at  belly- 
height,  drawing  it  back  then  with  the  help  of  a  foot. 

One  of  the  sharpshooters  overhears  our  talk  as  he 
passes.  He  looks  upon  us,  laughs  abundantly  in  his 


44  UNDER  FIRE 

helmeted  turban,  and  repeats  our  words  with  sig- 
nificant shakes  of  his  head  :  "  Pas  Kam'rad,  non  pas 
Kam'rad,  never  !  Cut  head  off !  " 

"  No  doubt  they're  a  different  race  from  us,  with 
their  tent-cloth  skin,"  Barque  confesses,  though  he 
does  not  know  himself  what  "  cold  feet  "  are.  "  It 
worries  them  to  rest,  you  know;  they  only  live  for  the 
minute  when  the  officer  puts  his  watch  back  in  his 
pocket  and  says,  '  Off  you  go  !  ' 

"  In  fact,  they're  real  soldiers." 

"  We  are  not  soldiers,"  says  big  Lamuse,  "  we're 
men." 

Though  the  evening  has  grown  darker  now,  that 
plain  true  saying  sheds  something  like  a  glimmering 
light  on  the  men  who  are  waiting  here,  waiting  since 
the  morning,  waiting  since  months  ago. 

They  are  men,  good  fellows  of  all  kinds,  rudely  torn 
away  from  the  joy  of  life.  Like  any  other  men  whom 
you  take  in  the  mass,  they  are  ignorant  and  of  narrow 
outlook,  full  of  a  sound  common  sense — which  some- 
times gets  off  the  rails — disposed  to  be  led  and  to  do 
as  they  are  bid,  enduring  under  hardships,  long-suffering. 

They  are  simple  men  further  simplified,  in  whom  the 
merely  primitive  instincts  have  been  accentuated  by 
the  force  of  circumstances — the  instinct  of  self-preser- 
vation, the  hard-gripped  hope  of  living  through,  the 
joy  of  food,  of  drink,  and  of  sleep.  And  at  intervals 
they  are  cries  and  dark  shudders  of  humanity  that 
issue  from  the  silence  and  the  shadows  of  their  great 
human  hearts. 

When  we  can  no  longer  see  clearly,  we  hear  down 
there  the  murmur  of  a  command,  which  comes  nearer 
and  rings  loud — 

"  Second  half-section  !  Muster  !  "  We  fall  in ;  it 
is  the  call. 

"  Gee  up  !  "  says  the  corporal.  We  are  set  in  motion. 
In  front  of  the  tool-depot  there  is  a  halt  and  trampling. 
To  each  is  given  a  spade  or  pickaxe.  An  N.C.O.  presents 
the  handles  in  the  gloom  :  "  You,  a  spade;  there,  hop 


IN  THE  EARTH  45 

it  !  You  a  spade,  too ;  you  a  pick.  Allans,  hurry  up 
and  get  off." 

We  leave  by  the  communication  trench  at  right 
angles  to  our  own,  and  straight  ahead  towards  the 
changeful  frontier,  now  alive  and  terrible. 

Up  in  the  sombre  sky,  the  strong  staccato  panting 
of  an  invisible  aeroplane  circles  in  wide  descending 
coils  and  fills  infinity.  In  front,  to  right  and  left, 
everywhere,  thunderclaps  roll  with  great  glimpses  of 
short-lived  light  in  the  dark-blue  sky. 


Ill 

THE   RETURN 

RELUCTANTLY  the  ashen  dawn  is  bleaching  the  still 
dark  and  formless  landscape.  Between  the  declining 
road  on  the  right  that  falls  into  the  gloom,  and  the 
black  cloud  of  the  Alleux  Wood — where  we  hear  the 
convoy  teams  assembling  and  getting  under  way — a 
field  extends.  We  have  reached  it,  we  of  the  6th 
Battalion,  at  the  end  of  the  night.  We  have  piled 
arms,  and  now,  in  the  centre  of  this  circle  of  uncertain 
light,  our  feet  in  the  mist  and  mud,  we  stand  in  dark 
clusters  (that  yet  are  hardly  blue),  or  as  solitary  phan- 
toms ;  and  the  heads  of  all  are  turned  towards  the 
road  that  comes  from  "  down  there/'  We  are  waiting 
for  the  rest  of  the  regiment,  the  5th  Battalion,  who 
were  in  the  first  line  and  left  the  trenches  after  us. 

Noises ;  "  There  they  are  !  "  A  long  and  shapeless 
mass  appears  in  the  west  and  comes  down  out  of  the 
night  upon  the  dawning  road. 

At  last  !  It  is  ended,  the  accursed  shift  that  began 
at  six  o'clock  yesterday  evening  and  has  lasted  all 
night,  and  now  the  last  man  has  stepped  from  the  last 
communication  trench. 

This  time  it  has  been  an  awful  sojourn  in  the  trenches. 
The  i8th  company  was  foremost  and  has  been  cut  up, 
eighteen  killed  and  fifty  wounded — one  in  three  less  in 
four  days.  And  this  without  attack — by  bombardment 
alone. 

This  is  known  to  us,  and  as  the  mutilated  battalion 
approaches  down  there,  and  we  join  them  in  trampling 
the  muddy  field  and  exchanging  nods  of  recognition, 
we  cry,  "  What  about  the  i8th?"  We  are  thinking 

46 


THE  RETURN  47 

as  we  put  the  question,  "  If  it  goes  on  like  this,  what 
is  to  become  of  all  of  us  ?  What  will  become  of  me  ?  " 

The  I7th,  the  igth,  and  the  20th  arrive  in  turn  and 
pile  arms.  "  There's  the  i8th  I"  It  arrives  after  all 
the  others;  having  held  the  first  trench,  it  has  been 
last  relieved. 

The  light  is  a  little  cleaner,  and  the  world  is  paling. 
We  can  make  out,  as  he  comes  down  the  road,  the 
company's  captain,  ahead  of  his  men  and  alone.  He 
helps  himself  along  with  a  stick,  and  walks  with  difficulty, 
by  reason  of  his  old  wound  of  the  Marne  battle  that 
rheumatism  is  troubling;  and  there  are  other  pangs, 
too.  He  lowers  his  hooded  head,  and  might  be  attend- 
ing a  funeral.  We  can  see  that  in  his  mind  he  is  indeed 
following  the  dead,  and  his  thoughts  are  with  them. 

Here  is  the  company,  debouching  in  dire  disorder, 
and  our  hearts  are  heavy.  It  is  obviously  shorter  than 
the  other  three,  in  the  march  past  of  the  battalion. 

I  reach  the  road,  and  confront  the  descending  mass 
of  the  1 8th.  The  uniforms  of  these  survivors  are  all 
earth-yellowed  alike,  so  that  they  appear  to  be  clad  in 
khaki.  The  cloth  is  stiff  with  the  ochreous  mud  that 
has  dried  underneath.  The  skirts  of  their  greatcoats 
are  like  lumps  of  wood,  jumping  about  on  the  yellow 
crust  that  reaches  to  their  knees.  Their  faces  are 
drawn  and  blackened;  dust  and  dirt  have  wrinkled 
them  anew;  their  eyes  are  big  and  fevered.  And 
from  these  soldiers  whom  the  depths  of  horror  have 
given  back  there  rises  a  deafening  din.  They  talk 
all  at  once,  and  loudly;  they  gesticulate,  they  laugh 
and  sing.  You  would  think,  to  see  them,  that  it  was 
a  holiday  crowd  pouring  over  the  road  ! 

These  are  the  second  section  and  its  big  sub-lieutenant, 
whose  greatcoat  is  tightened  and  strapped  around  a 
body  as  stiff  as  a  rolled  umbrella."  I  elbow  my  way 
along  the  marching  crowd  as  far  as  Marchal's  squad, 
the  most  sorely  tried  of  all.  Out  of  eleven  comrades  that 
they  were,  and  had  been  without  a  break  for  a  year  and 
a  half,  there  were  three  men  only  with  Corporal  Marchal. 


48  UNDER  FIRE 

He  sees  me — with  a  glad  exclamation  and  a  broad 
smile.  He  lets  go  his  rifle-sling  and  offers  me  his 
hands,  from  one  of  which  hangs  his  trench  stick — 

"  Eh,  vieux  frere,  still  going  strong?  What's  become 
of  you  lately?  " 

I  turn  my  head  away  and  say,  almost  under  my 
breath,  "  So,  old  chap,  it's  happened  badly." 

His  smile  dies  at  once,  and  he  is  serious  :  "  Eh,  oui, 
old  man;  it  can't  be  helped;  it  was  awful  this  time. 
Barbier  is  killed." 

"  They  told  us — Barbier  !  " 

"  Saturday  night  it  was,  at  eleven  o'clock.  He  had 
the  top  of  his  back  taken  away  by  a  shell,"  says  Marchal, 
"  cut  off  like  a  razor.  Besse  got  a  bit  of  shell  that 
went  clean  through  his  belly  and  stomach.  Barthelemy 
and  Baubex  got  it  in  the  head  and  neck.  We  passed 
the  night  skedaddling  up  and  down  the  trench  at  full 
speed,  to  dodge  the  showers.  And  little  Godefroy — 
did  you  know  him  ? — middle  of  his  body  blown  away. 
He  was  emptied  of  blood  on  the  spot  in  an  instant, 
like  a  bucket  kicked  over.  Little  as  he  was,  it  was 
remarkable  how  much  blood  he  had,  it  made  a  stream 
at  least  fifty  metres  long.  Gougnard  got  his  legs  cut 
up  by  one  explosion.  They  picked  him  up  not  quite 
dead.  That  was  at  the  listening  post.  I  was  there  on 
duty  with  them.  But  when  that  shell  fell  I  had  gone 
into  the  trench  to  ask  the  time.  I  found  my  rifle, 
that  I'd  left  in  my  place,  bent  double,  as  if  some  one 
had  folded  it  in  his  hands,  the  barrel  like  a  corkscrew, 
and  half  of  the  stock  in  sawdust.  The  smell  of  fresh 
blood  was  enough  to  bring  your  heart  up." 

"  And  Mondain — him,  too  ?  " 

"  Mondain — that  was  the  day  after,  yesterday  in 
fact,  in  a  dug-out  that  a  shell  smashed  in.  He  was 
lying  down,  and  his  chest  was  crushed.  Have  they 
told  you  about  Franco,  who  was  alongside  Mondain? 
The  fall  of  earth  broke  his  spine.  He  spoke  again  after 
they'd  got  him  out  and  set  him  down.  He  said,  with 
his  head  falling  to  one  side,  '  I'm  dying,'  and  he  was 


THE  RETURN  49 

gone.  Vigile  was  with  them,  too;  his  body  wasn't 
touched,  but  they  found  him  with  his  head  completely 
flattened  out,  flat  as  a  pancake,  and  huge — as  big  as 
that.  To  see  it  spread  out  on  the  ground,  black  and 
distorted,  it  made  you  think  of  his  shadow — the  shadow 
one  gets  on  the  ground  sometimes  when  one  walks  with 
a  lantern  at  night." 

"  Vigile — only  Class  1913 — a  child  !  And  Mondain 
and  Franco — such  good  sorts,  in  spite  of  their  stripes. 
We're  so  many  old  special  pals  the  less,  mon  vieux 
Marchal." 

'  Yes/'  says  Marchal.  But  he  is  swallowed  up  in  a 
crowd  of  his  friends,  who  worry  and  catechise  him. 
He  bandies  jests  with  them,  and  answers  their  raillery, 
and  all  hustle  each  other,  and  laugh. 

I  look  from  face  to  face.  They  are  merry,  and  in 
spite  of  the  contractions  of  weariness,  and  the  earth- 
stains,  they  look  triumphant. 

What  does  it  mean  ?  If  wine  had  been  possible  during 
their  stay  in  the  first  line,  I  should  have  said,  "  All 
these  men  are  drunk." 

I  single  out  one  of  the  survivors,  who  hums  as  he 
goes,  and  steps  in  time  with  it  flippantly,  as  hussars 
of  the  stage  do.  It  is  Vanderborn,  the  drummer. 

"  Hullo,  Vanderborn,  you  look  pleased  with  your- 
self !  " 

Vanderborn,  who  is  sedate  in  the  ordinary,  cries, 
"  It's  not  me  yet,  you  see  !  Here  I  am  !  "  With  a 
mad  gesticulation  he  serves  me  a  thump  on  the  shoulder. 
I  understand. 

If  these  men  are  happy  in  spite  of  all,  as  they  come 
out  of  hell,  it  is  because  they  are  coming  out  of  it. 
They  are  returning,  they  are  spared.  Once  again  the 
Death  that  was  there  has  passed  them  over.  Each 
company  in  its  turn  goes  to  the  front  once  in  six  weeks. 
Six  weeks  !  In  both  great  and  minor  matters,  fighting 
soldiers  manifest  the  philosophy  of  the  child.  They 
never  look  afar,  either  ahead  or  around.  Their  thought 
strays  hardly  farther  than  from  day  to  day.  To-day, 
E 


So  UNDER  FIRE 

every  one  of  those  men  is  confident  that  he  will  live  yet 
a  little  while. 

And  that  is  why,  in  spite  of  the  weariness  that  weighs 
them  down  and  the  new  slaughter  with  which  they  are 
still  bespattered,  though  each  has  seen  his  brothers 
torn  away  from  his  side,  in  spite  of  all  and  in  spite  of 
themselves,  they  are  celebrating  the  Feast  of  the 
Survivors.  The  boundless  glory  in  which  they  rejoice 
is  this — they  still  stand  straight. 


IV 

VOLPATTE  AND  FOUILLADE 

As  we  reached  quarters  again,  some  one  cried  :  "  But 
where's  Volpatte  ?  "— "  And  Fouillade,  where's  he?  " 

They  had  been  requisitioned  and  taken  off  to  the  front 
line  by  the  5th  Battalion.  No  doubt  we  should  find 
them  somewhere  in  quarters.  No  success.  Two  men 
of  the  squad  lost  ! 

"  That's  what  comes  of  lending  men,"  said  the  sergeant, 
with  a  great  oath.  The  captain,  when  apprised  of  the 
loss,  also  cursed  and  swore  and  said,  "  I  must  have 
th&se  men.  Let  them  be  found  at  once.  Allez  !  " 

Farfadet  and  I  are  summoned  by  Corporal  Bertrand 
from  the  barn  where  at  full  length  we  have  already 
immobilised  ourselves,  and  are  growing  torpid  :  "  You 
must  go  and  look  for  Volpatte  and  Fouillade." 

Quickly  we  got  up,  and  set  off  with  a  shiver  of  uneasi- 
ness. Our  two  comrades  have  been  taken  by  the 
5th  and  carried  off  to  that  infernal  shift.  Who  knows 
where  they  are  and  what  they  may  be  by  now  ! 

We  climb  up  the  hill  again.  Again  we  begin,  but  in 
the  opposite  direction,  the  journey  done  since  the  dawn 
and  the  night.  Though  we  are  without  our  heavy  stuff, 
and  only  carry  rifles  and  accoutrements,  we  feel  idle, 
sleepy,  and  stiff;  and  the  country  is  sad,  and  the  sky 
all  wisped  with  mist.  Farfadet  is  soon  panting.  He 
talked  a  little  at  first,  till  fatigue  enforced  silence  on 
him.  He  is  brave  enough,  but  frail,  and  during  all 
his  pre-war  life,  shut  up  in  the  Town  Hall  office  where 
he  scribbled  since  the  days  of  his  "  first  sacrament  " 
between  a  stove  and  some  ageing  cardboard  files,  he 
hardly  learned  the  use  of  his  legs. 


52  UNDER  FIRE 

Just  as  we  emerge  from  the  wood,  slipping  and  flounder- 
ing, to  penetrate  the  region  of  communication  trenches, 
two  faint  shadows  are  outlined  in  front.  Two  soldiers 
are  coming  up.  We  can  see  the  protuberance  of  their 
burdens  and  the  sharp  lines  of  their  rifles.  The  swaying 
double  shape  becomes  distinct — "  It's  them  !  " 

One  of  the  shadows  has  a  great  white  head,  all 
swathed — "  One  of  them's  wounded  !  It's  Volpatte  !  " 

We  run  up  to  the  spectres,  our  feet  making  the  sounds 
of  sinking  in  sponge  and  of  sticky  withdrawal,  and  our 
shaken  cartridges  rattle  in  their  pouches.  They  stand 
still  and  wait  for  us.  When  we  are  close  up,  "  It's 
about  time  !  "  cries  Volpatte. 

"  You're  wounded,  old  chap?  "— "  What?  "  he  says; 
the  manifold  bandages  all  round  his  head  make  him 
deaf,  and  we  must  shout  to  get  through  them.  So  we 
go  close  and  shout.  Then  he  replies,  "  That's  nothing; 
we're  coming  from  the  hole  where  the  5th  Battalion 
put  us  on  Thursday." 

"  You've  stayed  there — ever  since  ?  "  yells  Farfadet, 
whose  shrill  and  almost  feminine  voice  goes  easily 
through  the  quilting  that  protects  Volpatte's  ears. 

"  Of  course  we  stayed  there,  you  blithering  idiot  !  " 
says  Fouillade.  ;'  You  don't  suppose  we'd  got  wings 
to  fly  away  with,  and  still  less  that  we  should  have  legged 
it  without  orders  ?  " 

Both  of  them  let  themselves  drop  to  a  sitting  position 
on  the  ground.  Volpatte's  head — enveloped  in  rags  with 
a  big  knot  on  the  top  and  the  same  dark  yellowish  stains 
as  his  face — looks  like  a  bundle  of  dirty  linen. 

"  They  forgot  you,  then.,  poor  devils  ?  " 

"  Rather  !  "  cries  Fouillade,  "  I  should  say  they  did. 
Four  days  and  four  nights  in  a  shell-hole,  with  bullets 
raining  down,  a  hole  that  stunk  like  a  cesspool." 

"  That's  right,"  says  Volpatte.  "  It  wasn't  an 
ordinary  listening-post  hple,  where  one  comes  and  goes 
regularly.  It  was  just  a  shell-hole,  like  any  other  old 
shell-hole,  neither  more  nor  less.  They  said  to  us  on 
Thursday,  '  Station  yourselves  in  there  and  keep  on 


VOLPATTE  AND  FOUILLADE   53 

firing,'  they  said.  Next  day,  a  liaison  chap  of  the  5th 
Battalion  came  and  showed  his  neb  :  '  What  the  hell  are 
you  doing  there  ? ' — '  Why,  we're  firing.  They  told  us  to 
fire,  so  we're  firing,'  I  says.  '  If  they  told  us  to  do  it, 
there  must  be  some  reason  at  the  back  of  it.  We're 
wanting  for  them  to  tell  us  to  do  something  else.'  The 
chap  made  tracks.  He  looked  a  bit  uneasy,  and  suffering 
from  the  effects  of  being  bombed.  '  It's  22,'  he  says." 

"  To  us  two,"  says  Fouillade,  "  there  was  a  loaf  of 
bread  and  a  bucket  of  wine  that  the  i8th  gave  us  when 
they  planted  us  there,  and  a  whole  case  of  cartridges, 
my  boy.  We  fired  off  the  cartridges  and  drank  the 
booze,  but  we  had  sense  to  keep  a  few  cartridges  and  a 
hunch  of  bread,  though  we  didn't  keep  any  wine." 

"  That's  where  we  went  wrong,"  says  Volpatte, 
"  seeing  that  it  was  a  thirsty  job.  Say,  boys,  you 
haven't  got  any  gargle  ?  " 

"  I've  still  nearly  half  a  pint  of  wine,"  replies  Farfadet. 

"  Give  it  to  him,"  says  Fouillade,  pointing  to  Vol- 
patte, "  seeing  that  he's  been  losing  blood.  I'm  only 
thirsty." 

Volpatte  was  shivering,  and  his  little  strapped-up 
eyes  burned  with  fever  in  the  enormous  dump  of 
rags  set  upon  his  shoulders.  "  That's  good,"  he  says, 
drinking. 

"  Ah  !  And  then,  too,"  he  added,  emptying — as 
politeness  requires — the  drop  of  wine  that  remained  at 
the  bottom  of  Farfadet 's  cup,  "  we  got  two  Boches. 
They  were  crawling  about  outside,  and  fell  into  our  holes, 
as  blindly  as  moles  into  a  spring  snare,  those  chaps 
did.  We  tied  'em  up.  And  see  us  then — after  firing 
for  thirty-six  hours,  we'd  no  more  ammunition.  So  we 
filled  our  magazines  with  the  last,  and  waited,  in  front 
of  the  parcels  of  Boche.  The  liaison  chap  forgot  to 
tell  his  people  that  we  were  there.  You,  the  6th,  forgot 
to  ask  for  us  ;  the  i8th  forgot  us,  too  ;  and  as  we  weren't 
in  a  listening-post  where  you're  relieved  as  regular  as 
if  at  H.Q.,  I  could  almost  see  us  staying  there  till  the 
regiment  came  back.  In  the  long  run,  it  was  the  loafers 


54  UNDER  FIRE 

of  the  204th,  come  to  skulk  about  looking  for  fuses, 
that  mentioned  us.  So  then  we  got  the  order  to  fall 
back — immediately,  they  said.  That  '  immediately  ' 
was  a  good  joke,  and  we  got  into  harness  at  once.  We 
untied  the  legs  of  the  Boches,  led  them  off  and  handed 
them  over  to  the  204th,  and  here  we  are." 

"  We  even  fished  out,  in  passing,  a  sergeant  who 
was  piled  up  in  a  hole  and  didn't  dare  come  out,  seeing 
he  was  shell-shocked.  We  slanged  him,  and  that  set 
him  up  a  bit,  and  he  thanked  us.  Sergeant  Sacerdote 
he  called  himself." 

"  But  your  wound,  old  chap?  " 

"  It's  my  ears.  Two  shells,  a  little  one  and  a  big 
one,  my  lad — went  off  while  you're  saying  it.  My 
head  came  between  the  two  bursts,  as  you  might  say, 
but  only  just ;  a  very  close  shave,  and  my  lugs  got  it." 

"  'You  should  have  seen  him,"  says  Fouillade,  "  it  was 
disgusting,  those  two  ears  hanging  down.  We  had 
two  packets  of  bandages,  and  the  stretcher-men  fired 
us  one  in.  That  makes  three  packets  he's  got  rolled 
round  his  nut." 

"  Give  us  your  traps,  we're  going  back." 

Farfadet  and  I  divide  Volpatte's  equipment  between 
us.  Fouillade,  sullen  with  thirst  and  racked  by  stiff 
joints,  growls,  and  insists  obstinately  on  keeping  his 
weapons  and  bundles. 

We  stroll  back,  finding  diversion — as  always — in 
walking  without  ranks.  It  is  so  uncommon  that  one 
finds  it  surprising  and  profitable.  So  it  is  a  breath  of 
liberty  which  soon  enlivens  all  four  of  us.  We  are  in 
the  country  as  though  for  the  pleasure  of  it. 

"  We  are  pedestrians  !  "  says  Volpatte  proudly. 
When  we  reach  the  turning  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  he 
relapses  upon  rosy  visions  :  "  Old  man,  it's  a  good 
wound,  after  all.  I  shall  be  sent  back,  no  mistake 
about  it." 

Kis  eyes  wink  and  sparkle  in  the  huge  white  clump 
that  dithers  on  his  shoulders — a  clump  reddish  on  each 
side,  where  the  ears  were. 


VOLPATTE  AND  FOUILLADE       55 

From  the  depth  where  the  village  lies  we  hear  ten 
o'clock  strike.  "  To  hell  with  the  time,"  says  Volpatte ; 
"  it  doesn't  matter  to  me  any  more  what  time  it  is." 

He  becomes  loquacious.  It  is  a  low  fever  that  inspires 
his  dissertation,  and  condenses  it  to  the  slow  swing  of 
our  walk,  in  which  his  step  is  already  jaunty. 

"  They'll  stick  a  red  label  on  my  greatcoat,  you'll 
see,  and  take  me  to  the  rear.  I  shall  be  bossed  this 
time  by  a  very  polite  sort  of  chap,  who'll  say  to  me, 
'  That's  one  side,  now  turn  the  other  way — so,  my 
poor  fellow/  Then  the  ambulance,  and  then  the  sick- 
train,  with  the  pretty  little  ways  of  the  Red  Cross 
ladies  all  the  way  along,  like  they  did  to  Crapelet  Jules, 
then  the  base  hospital.  Beds  with  white  sheets,  a  stove 
that  snores  in  the  middle  of  us  all,  people  with  the  special 
job  of  looking  after  you,  and  that  you  watch  doing 
it,  regulation  slippers — sloppy  and  comfortable — and  a 
chamber-cupboard.  Furniture  !  And  it's  in  those  big 
hospitals  that  you're  all  right  for  grub  !  I  shall  have 
good  feeds,  and  baths.  I  shall  take  all  I  can  get  hold 
of.  And  there'll  be  presents — that  you  can  enjoy 
without  having  to  fight  the  others  for  them  and  get 
yourself  into  a  bloody  mess.  I  shall  have  my  two  hands 
on  the  counterpane,  and  they'll  do  damn  well  nothing, 
like  things  to  look  at — like  toys,  what  ?  And  under  the 
sheets  my  legs'll  be  white-hot  all  the  way  through,  and 
my  trotters  '11  be  expanding  like  bunches  of  violets." 

Volpatte  pauses,  fumbles  about,  and  pulls  out  of  his 
pocket,  along  with  his  famous  pair  of  Soissons  scissors, 
something  that  he  shows  to  me  :  "  Tiens,  have  you  seen 
this?" 

It  is  a  photograph  of  his  wife  and  two  children.  He 
has  already  shown  it  to  me  many  a  time.  I  look  at 
it  and  express  appreciation. 

"  I  shall  go  on  sick-leave,"  says  Volpatte,  "  and  while 
my  ears  are  sticking  themselves  on  again,  the  wife  and 
the  little  ones  will  look  at  me,  and  I  shall  look  at  them. 
And  while  they're  growing  again  like  lettuces,  my  friends, 
the  war,  it'll  make  progress — the  Russians — one  doesn't 


56  UNDER  FIRE 

know,  what  ?  "  He  is  thinking  aloud,  lulling  himself 
with  happy  anticipations,  already  alone  with  his  private 
festival  in  the  midst  of  us. 

"  Robber  !  "  Feuillade  shouts  at  him.  "  You've  too 
much  luck,  by  God  !  " 

How  could  we  not  envy  him?  He  would  be  going 
away  for  one,  two,  or  three  months ;  and  all  that  time, 
instead  of  our  wretched  privations,  he  would  be  trans- 
formed into  a  man  of  means  ! 

"  At  the  beginning,"  says  Farfadet,  "  it  sounded 
comic  when  I  heard  them  wish  for  a  '  good  wound.' 
But  all  the  same,  and  whatever  can  be  said  about  it, 
I  understand  now  that  it's  the  only  thing  a  poor  soldier 
can  hope  for  if  he  isn't  daft." 

#  *  *  *  #  * 

We  were  drawing  near  to  the  village  and  passing 
round  the  wood.  At  its  corner,  the  sudden  shape  of  a 
woman  arose  against  the  sportive  sunbeams  that  out- 
lined her  with  light.  Alertly  erect  she  stood,  before 
the  faintly  violet  background  of  the  wood's  marge  and 
the  cross-hatched  trees.  She  was  slender,  her  head 
all  afire  with  fair  hair,  and  in  her  pale  face  we  could  see 
the  night-dark  caverns  of  great  eyes.  The  resplendent 
being  gazed  fixedly  upon  us,  trembling,  then  plunged 
abruptly  into  the  undergrowth  and  disappeared  like  a 
torch. 

The  apparition  and  its  flight  so  impressed  Volpatte 
that  he  lost  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

"  She's  something  like,  that  woman  there  !  " 

"No,"  said  Fouillade,  who  had  misunderstood, 
"  she's  called  Eudoxie.  I  knew  her  because  I've  seen 
her  before.  A  refugee.  I  don't  know  where  she  comes 
from,  but  she's  at  Gamblin,  in  a  family  there." 

"  She's  thin  and  beautiful,"  Volpatte  certified;-  "one 
would  like  to  make  her  a  little  present — she's  good 
enough  to  eat — tender  as  a  chicken.  And  look  at  the 
eyes  she's  got  !  " 

"  She's  queer,"  says  Fouillade.  "  You  don't  know 
when  you've  got  her.  You  see  her  here,  there,  with  her 


VOLPATTE  AND  FOUILLADE       57 

fair  hair  on  top,  then — off !  Nobody  about.  And  you 
know,  she  doesn't  know  what  danger  is ;  marching 
about,  sometimes,  almost  in  the  front  line,  and  she's 
been  seen  knocking  about  in  No  Man's  Land.  She's 
queer/' 

"  Look !  There  she  is  again.  The  spook !  She's 
keeping  an  eye  on  us.  What's  she  after?  " 

The  shadow-figure,  traced  in  lines  of  light,  this  time 
adorned  the  other  end  of  the  spinney's  edge. 

"  To  hell  with  women,"  Volpatte  declared,  whom  the 
idea  of  his  deliverance  has  completely  recaptured. 

"  There's  one  in  the  squad,  anyway,  that  wants  her 
pretty  badly.  See — when  you  speak  of  the  wolf " 

"  You  see  its  tail " 

"  Not  yet,  but  almost — look  !  "  From  some  bushes 
on  our  right  we  saw  the  red  snout  of  Lamuse  appear 
peeping,  like  a  wild  boar's. 

He  was  on  the  woman's  trail.  He  had  seen  the 
alluring  vision,  dropped  to  the  crouch  of  a  setting  dog, 
and  made  his  spring.  But  in  that  spring  he  fell  upon  us. 

Recognising  Volpatte  and  Fouillade,  big  Lamuse  gave 
shouts  of  delight.  At  once  he  had  no  other  thought 
than  to  get  possession  of  the  bags,  rifles,  and  haversacks — 
"  Give  me  all  of  it — I'm  resting — come  on,  give  it  up." 

He  must  carry  everything.  Farfadet  and  I  willingly 
gave  up  Volpatte 's  equipment ;  and  Fouillade,  now  at 
the  end  of  his  strength,  agreed  to  surrender  his' pouches 
and  his  rifle. 

Lamuse  became  a  moving  heap.  Under  the  huge 
burden  he  disappeared,  bent  double,  and  made  progress 
only  with  shortened  steps. 

But  we  felt  that  he  was  still  under  the  sway  of  a 
certain  project,  and  his  glances  went  sideways.  He  was 
seeking  the  woman  after  whom  he  had  hurled  himself. 
Every  time  he  halted,  the  better  to  trim  some  detail 
of  the  load,  or  pufnngly  to  mop  the  greasy  flow  of 
perspiration,  he  furtively  surveyed  all  the  corners  of 
the  horizon  and  scrutinised  the  edges  of  the  wood.  He 
did  not  see  her  again, 


$8  UNDER  FIRE 

I  did  see  her  again,  and  got  a  distinct  impression  this 
time  that  it  was  one  of  us  she  was  after.  She  half 
arose  on  our  left  from  the  green  shadows  of  the  under- 
growth. Steadying  herself  with  one  hand  on  a  branch, 
she  leaned  forward  and  revealed  the  night-dark  eyes 
and  pale  face,  which  showed — so  brightly  lighted  was 
one  whole  side  of  it — like  a  crescent  moon. 

I  saw  that  she  was  smiling.  And  following  the  course 
of  the  look  that  smiled,  I  saw  Farfadet  a  little  way  behind 
us,  and  he  was  smiling  too.  Then  she  slipped  away  into 
the  dark  foliage,  carrying  the  twin  smile  with  her. 

Thus  was  the  understanding  revealed  to  me  between 
this  lissom  and  dainty  gipsy,  who  was  like  no  one  at 
all,  and  Farfadet,  conspicuous  among  us  all — slender, 
pliant  and  sensitive  as  lilac.  Evidently ! 

Lamuse  saw  nothing,  blinded  and  borne  down  as  he  was 
by  the  load  he  had  taken  from  Farfadet  and  me,  occupied 
in  the  poise  of  them,  and  in  finding  where  his  laden  and 
leaden  feet  might  tread. 

But  he  looks  unhappy;  he  groans.  A  weighty  and 
mournful  obsession  is  stifling  him.  In  his  harsh  breath- 
ing it  seems  to  me  that  I  can  hear  his  heart  beating  and 
muttering.  Looking  at  Volpatte,  hooded  in  bandages, 
and  then  at  the  strong  man,  muscular  and  full-blooded, 
with  that  profound  and  eternal  yearning  whose  sharpness 
he  alone  can  gauge,  I  say  to  myself  that  the  worst 
wounded  man  is  not  he  whom  we  think. 

We  go  down  at  last  to  the  village.  "  Let's  have  a 
drink,"  says  Fouillade.  "  I'm  going  to  be  sent  back," 
says  Volpatte.  Lamuse  puffs  and  groans. 

Our  comrades  shout  and  come  running,  and  we  gather 
in  the  little  square  where  the  church  stands  with  its 
twin  towers — so  thoroughly  mutilated  by  a  shell  that 
one  can  no  longer  look  it  in  the  face 


SANCTUARY 

THE  dim  road  which  rises  through  the  middle  of  the 
night-bound  wood  is  so  strangely  full  of  obstructing 
shadows  that  the  deep  darkness  of  the  forest  itself 
might  by  some  magic  have  overflowed  upon  it.  It  is 
the  regiment  on  the  march,  in  quest  of  a  new  home. 

The  weighty  ranks  of  the  shadows,  burdened  both 
high  and  broad,  hustle  each  other  blindly.  Each  wave, 
pushed  by  the  following,  stumbles  upon  the  one  in 
front,  while  alongside  and  detached  are  the  evolutions 
of  those  less  bulky  ghosts,  the  N.C.O.'s.  A  clamour  of 
confusion,  compound  of  exclamations,  of  scraps  of  chat, 
of  words  of  command,  of  spasms  of  coughing  and  of 
song,  goes  up  from  the  dense  mob  enclosed  between 
the  banks.  To  the  vocal  commotion  is  added  the 
tramping  of  feet,  the  jingling  of  bayonets  in  their 
scabbards,  of  cans  and  drinking-cups,  the  rumbling 
and  hammering  of  the  sixty  vehicles  of  the  two  convoys 
— fighting  and  regimental — that  follow  the  two  bat- 
talions. And  such  a  thing  is  it  that  trudges  and  spreads 
itself  over  the  climbing  road  that,  in  spite  of  the  un- 
bounded dome  of  night,  one  welters  in  the  odour  of  a 
den  of  lions. 

In  the  ranks  one  sees  nothing.  Sometimes,  when 
one  can  lift  his  nose  up,  by  grace  of  an  eddy  in  the 
tide,  one  cannot  help  seeing  the  whiteness  of  a  mess- 
tin,  the  blue  steel  of  a  helmet,  the  black  steel  of  a  rifle. 
Anon,  by  the  dazzling  jet  of  sparks  that  flies  from  a 
pocket  flint-and-steel,  or  the  red  flame  that  expands 
upon  the  lilliputian  stem  of  a  match,  one  can  see  beyond 
the  vivid  near  relief  of  hands  and  faces  to  the  silhouetted 

59 


60  UNDER  FIRE 

and  disordered  groups  of  helmeted  shoulders,  swaying 
like  surges  that  would  storm  the  sable  stronghold  of 
the  night.  Then,  all  goes  out,  and  while  each  tramping 
soldier's  legs  swing  to  and  fro,  his  eye  is  fixed  inflexibly 
upon  the  conjectural  situation  of  the  back  that  dwells 
in  front  of  him. 

After  several  halts,  when  we  have  allowed  ourselves 
to  collapse  on  our  haversacks  at  the  foot  of  the  stacked 
rifles — stacks  that  form  on  the  call  of  the  whistle  with 
feverish  haste  and  exasperating  delay,  through  our 
blindness  in  tha.t  atmosphere  of  ink— dawn  reveals 
itself,  extends,  and  acquires  the  domain  of  Space. 
The  walls  of  the  Shadow  crumble  in  vague  ruin.  Once 
more  we  pass  under  the  grand  panorama  of  the  day's 
unfolding  upon  the  ever-wandering  horde  that  we  are. 

We  emerge  at  last  from  this  night  of  marching, 
across  concentric  circles  as  it  seems,  of  darkness  less 
dark,  then  of  half -shadow,  then  of  gloomy  light. 
Legs  have  a  wooden  stiffness,  backs  are  benumbed, 
shoulders  bruised.  Faces  are  still  so  grey  or  so  black, 
one  would  say  they  had  but  half  rid  themselves  of  the 
night.  Now,  indeed,  one  never  throws  it  off  altogether. 

It  is  into  new  quarters  that  the  great  company  is 
going — this  time  to  rest.  What  will  the  place  be  like 
that  we  have  to  live  in  for  eight  days  ?  It  is  called, 
they  say — but  nobody  is  certain  of  anything — Gauchin- 
1'Abbe.  We  have  heard  wonders  about  it — "  It  appears 
to  be  just  it." 

In  the  ranks  of  the  companies  whose  forms  and 
features  one  begins  to  make  out  in  the  birth  of  morn- 
ing, and  to  distinguish  the  lowered  heads  and  yawning 
mouths,  some  voices  are  heard  in  still  higher  praise. 
"  There  never  were  such  quarters.  The  Brigade's  there, 
and  the  court-martial.  You  can  get  anything  in  the 
shops." — "  If  the  Brigade's  there,  we're  all  right." — 
"  Think  we  can  find  a  table  for  the  squad  ?  "• — "  Every- 
thing you  want,  I  tell  you." 

A  pessimist  prophet  shakes  his  head  :  "  What  these 
quarters  '11  be  like  where  we've  never  been,  I  don't 


SANCTUARY  61 

know,"  he  says.  "  What  I  do  know  is  that  it'll  be  like 
the  others." 

But  we  don't  believe  him,  and  emerging  from  the 
fevered  turmoil  of  the  night,  it  seems  to  all  that  it  is 
a  sort  of  Promised  Land  we  are  approaching  by  degrees 
as  the  light  brings  us  out  of  the  east  and  the  icy  air 
towards  the  unknown  village. 

At  the  foot  of  a  hill  in  the  half-light,  we  reach  some 
houses,  still  slumbering  and  wrapped  in  heavy  greyness 
— "  There  it  is  !  " 

Poof  !  We've  done  twenty-eight  kilometres  in  the 
night.  But  what  of  that  ?  There  is  no  halt.  We  go 
past  the  houses,  and  they  sink  back  again  into  their 
vague  vapours  and  their  mysterious  shroud. 

"  Seems  we've  got  to  march  a  long  time  yet.  It's 
always  there,  there,  there  !  " 

We  march  like  machines,  our  limbs  invaded  by  a 
sort  of  petrified  torpor ;  our  joints  cry  aloud,  and  force 
us  to  make  echo. 

Day  comes  slowly,  for  a  blanket  of  mist  covers  the 
earth.  It  is  so  cold  that  the  men  dare  not  sit  down 
during  the  halts,  though  overborne  by  weariness,  and 
they  pace  to  and  fro  in  the  damp  obscurity  like  ghosts. 
The  besom  of  a  biting  wintry  wind  whips  our  skin, 
sweeps  away  and  scatters  our  words  and  our  sighs. 

At  last  the  sun  pierces  the  reek  that  spreads  over  us 
and  soaks  what  it  touches,  and  something  like  a  fairy 
glade  opens  out  in  the  midst  of  this  gloom  terrestrial. 
The  regiment  stretches  itself  and  wakes  up  in  truth, 
with  slow-lifted  faces  to  the  gilded  silver  of  the  earliest 
rays.  Quickly,  then,  the  sun  grows  fiery,  and  now  it 
is  too  hot.  In  the  ranks  we  pant  and  sweat,  and  our 
grumbling  is  louder  even  than  just  now,  when  our 
teeth  were  chattering  and  the  fog  wet-sponged  our 
hands  and  faces. 

It  is  a  chalk  country  through  which  we  are  passing 
on  this  torrid  forenoon — "  They  mend  this  road  with 
lime,  the  dirty  devils  !  "  The  road  has  become  blind- 
ing— a  long-drawn  cloud  of  dessicated  chalk  and  dust 


62  UNDER  FIRE 

that  rises  high  above  our  columns  and  powders  us  as 
we  go.  Faces  turn  red,  and  shine  as  though  varnished; 
some  of  the  full-blooded  ones  might  be  plastered  with 
vaseline.  Cheeks  and  foreheads  are  coated  with  a 
rusty  paste  which  agglutinates  and  cracks.  Feet  lose 
their  dubious  likeness  to  feet  and  might  have  paddled 
in  a  mason's  mortar-trough.  Haversacks  and  rifles  are 
powdered  in  white,  and  our  legion  leaves  to  left  and 
right  a  long  milky  track  on  the  bordering  grass.  And 
to  crown  all — "  To  the  right  !  A  convoy  !  " 

We  bear  to  the  right,  hurriedly,  and  not  without 
bumpings.  The  convoy  of  lorries,  a  long  chain  of  four- 
square and  huge  projectiles,  rolling  up  with  diabolical 
din,  hurls  itself  along  the  road.  Curse  it  !  One  after 
another,  they  gather  up  the  thick  carpet  of  white 
powder  that  upholsters  the  ground  and  send  it  broad- 
cast over  our  shoulders  !  Now  we  are  garbed  in  a 
stuff  of  light  grey  and  our  faces  are  pallid  masks,  thickest 
on  the  eyebrows  and  moustaches,  on  beards,  and  the 
cracks  of  wrinkles.  Though  still  ourselves,  we  look 
like  strange  old  men. 

"  When  we're  old  buffers,  we  shall  be  as  ugly  as 
this,"  says  Tirette. 

"  Tu  cr  aches  blanc,"  declares  Biquet.1 

When  a  halt  puts  us  out  of  action,  you  might  take  us 
for  rows  of  plaster  statues,  with  some  dirty  indications 
of  humanity  showing  through. 

We  move  again,  silent  and  chagrined.  Every  step 
becomes  hard  to  complete.  Our  faces  assume  con- 
gealed and  fixed  grimaces  under  the  wan  leprosy  of 
dust.  The  unending  effort  contracts  us  and  quite  fills 
us  with  dismal  weariness  and  disgust. 

We  espy  at  last  the  long-sought  oasis.  Beyond  a 
hill,  on  a  still  higher  one,  some  slated  roofs  peep  from 
clusters  of  foliage  as  brightly  green  as  a  salad.  The 
village  is  there,  and  our  looks  embrace  it,  but  we  are 

1  Pity  to  spoil  this  jest  by  translation,  but  Biquet's  primary 
meaning  was  "  You're  cross  because  you've  a  throat  like  a  lime- 
kiln." His  secondary  or  literal  meaning  is  obvious. — Tr. 


SANCTUARY  63 

not  there  yet.  For  a  long  time  it  seems  to  recede  as 
fast  as  the  regiment  crawls  towards  it. 

At  long  last,  on  the  stroke  of  noon,  we  reach  the 
quarters  that  had  begun  to  appear  a  pretence  and  a 
legend.  In  regular  step  and  with  rifles  on  shoulders, 
the  regiment  floods  the  street  of  Gauchin-l'Abbe  right 
to  its  edges.  Most  of  the  villages  of  the  Pas  du  Calais 
are  composed  of  a  single  street,  but  such  a  street  !  It 
is  often  several  kilometres  long.  In  this  one,  the  street 
divides  in  front  of  the  mairie  and  forms  two  others,  so 
that  the  hamlet  becomes  a  big  Y,  brokenly  bordered  by 
low-built  dwellings. 

The  cyclists,  the  officers,  the  orderlies,  break  away 
from  the  long  moving  mass.  Then,  as  they  come  up, 
a  few  of  the  men  at  a  time  are  swallowed  up  by  the 
barns,  the  still  available  houses  being  reserved  for 
officers  and  departments.  Our  half-company  is  led  at 
first  to  the  end  of  the  village,  and  then — by  some  mis- 
understanding among  the  quartermasters — back  tu  the 
other  end,  the  one  by  which  we  entered.  This  oscilla- 
tion takes  up  time,  and  the  squad,  dragged  thus  from 
north  to  south  and  from  south  to  north,  heavily  fatigued 
and  irritated  by  wasted  walking,  evinces  feverish  im- 
patience. For  it  is  supremely  important  to  be  installed 
and  set  free  as  early  as  possible  if  we  are  to  carry  out 
the  plan  we  have  cherished  so  long — to  find  a  native 
with  some  little  place  to  let,  and  a  table  where  the 
squad  can  have  its  meals.  We  have  talked  a  good 
deal  about  this  idea  and  its  delightful  advantages. 
We  have  taken  counsel,  subscribed  to  a  common  fund, 
and  decided  that  this  time  we  will  take  the  header 
into  the  additional  outlay. 

But  will  it  be  possible  ?  Very  many  places  are 
already  snapped  up.  We  are  not  the  only  ones  to 
bring  our  dream  of  comfort  here,  and  it  will  be  a  race 
for  that  table.  Three  companies  are  coming  in  after 
ours,  but  four  were  here  before  us,  and  there  are  the 
officers,  the  cooks  of  the  hospital  staff  for  the  Section, 
and  the  clerks,  the  drivers,  the  orderlies  and  others, 


64  UNDER  FIRE 

official  cooks  of  the  sergeants'  mess,  and  I  don't  know 
how  many  more.  All  these  men  are  more  influential 
than  the  soldiers  of  the  line,  they  have  more  mobility 
and  more  money,  and  can  bring  off  their  schemes 
beforehand.  Already,  while  we  march  four  abreast 
towards  the  barn  assigned  to  the  squad,  we  see  some 
of  these  jokers  across  the  conquered  thresholds, 
domestically  busy. 

Tirette  imitates  the  sounds  of  lowing  and  bleating 
— "  There's  our  cattle-shed."  A  fairly  big  barn.  The 
chopped  straw  smells  of  night-soil,  and  our  feet  stir  up 
clouds  of  dust.  But  it  is  almost  enclosed.  We  choose 
our  places  and  cast  off  our  equipment. 

Those  who  dreamed  yet  once  again  of  a  special  sort 
of  Paradise  sing  low — yet  once  again.  "  Look  now,  it 
seems  as  ugly  as  the  other  places." — "  It's  something 
like  the  same." — "  Naturally." 

But  there  is  no  time  to  waste  in  talking.  The  thing 
is  to  get  clear  and  be  after  the  others  with  all  strength 
and  speed.  We  hurry  out.  In  spite  of  broken  backs 
and  aching  feet,  we  set  ourselves  savagely  to  this  last 
effort  on  which  the  comfort  of  a  week  depends. 

The  squad  divides  into  two  patrols  and  sets  off  at 
the  double,  one  to  left  and  one  to  right  along  the  street, 
which  is  already  obstructed  by  busy  questing  poilus; 
and  all  the  groups  see  and  watch  each  other — and 
hurry.  In  places  there  are  collisions,  jost lings,  and 
abuse. 

"  Let's  begin  down  there  at  once,  or  our  goose  '11  be 
cooked  !  "  I  have  an  impression  of  a  kind  of  fierce 
battle  between  all  the  soldiers,  in  the  streets  of  the 
village  they  have  just  occupied.  "  For  us,"  says 
Marthereau,  "  war  is  always  struggling  and  fighting — 
always,  always." 

We  knock  at  door  after  door,  we  show  ourselves 
timidly,  we  offer  ourselves  like  undesirable  goods.  A 
voice  arises  among  us,  "  You  haven't  a  bit  of  a  corner, 
madame,  for  some  soldiers  ?  We  would  pay." 

"  No — you  see,  I've  got  officers — under-officers,  that 


SANCTUARY  65 

is — you  see,  it's  the  mess  for  the  band,  and  the  secre- 
taries, and  the  gentlemen  of  the  ambulance " 

Vexation  after  vexation.  We  close  again,  one  after 
the  other,  all  the  doors  we  had  half-opened,  and  look 
at  each  other,  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  threshold,  with 
dwindling  hope  in  our  eyes. 

"Bon  Dieu!  You'll  see  that  we  shan't  find  any- 
thing," growls  Barque.  "  Damn  those  chaps  that  got 
on  the  midden  before  us  !  " 

The  human  flood  reaches  high-water  mark  every- 
where. The  three  streets  are  all  growing  dark  as  each 
overflows  into  another.  Some  natives  cross  our  path, 
old  men  or  ill-shapen,  contorted  in  their  walk,  stunted 
in  the  face ;  and  even  young  people,  too,  over  whom 
hovers  the  mystery  of  secret  disorders  or  political 
connections.  As  for  the  petticoats,  there  are  old 
women  and  many  young  ones — fat,  with  well-padded 
cheeks,  and  equal  to  geese  in  their  whiteness." 

Suddenly,  in  an  alley  between  two  houses,  I  have 
a  fleeting  vision  of  a  woman  who  crossed  the  shadowy 
gap — Eudoxie  !  Eudoxie,  the  fairy  woman  whom 
Lamuse  hunted  like  a  satyr,  away  back  in  the  country, 
that  morning  we  brought  back  Volpatte  wounded,  and 
Fouillade,  the  woman  I  saw  leaning  from  the  spinney's 
edge  and  bound  to  Farfadet  in  a  mutual  smile.  It  is 
she  whom  I  just  glimpsed  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine  in 
that  alley.  But  the  gleam  was  eclipsed  by  the  tail  of 
a  wall,  and  the  place  thereof  relapsed  upon  gloom. 
She  here,  already  !  Then  she  has  followed  our  long 
and  painful  trek  !  She  is  attracted ? 

And  she  looks  like  one  allured,  too.  Brief  glimpse 
though  it  was  of  her  face  and  its  crown  of  fair  hair, 
plainly  I  saw  that  she  was  serious,  thoughtful,  absent- 
minded. 

Lamuse,  following  close  on  my  heels,  saw  nothing, 
and  I  do  not  tell  him.  He  will  discover  quite  soon 
enough  the  bright  presence  of  that  lovely  flame  where 
he  would  fain  cast  himself  bodily,  though  it  evades 
him  like  a  Will-o'-th'-wisp.  For  the  moment,  besides, 
F 


66  UNDER  FIRE 

we  are  on  business  bent.  The  coveted  corner  must  be 
won.  We  resume  the  hunt  with  the  energy  of  despair. 
Barque  leads  us  on ;  he  has  taken  the  matter  to  heart. 
He  is  trembling — you  can  see  it  in  his  dusty  scalp.  He 
guides  us,  nose  to  the  wind.  He  suggests  that  we  make 
an  attempt  on  that  yellow  door  over  there.  Forward  ! 

Near  the  yellow  door,  we  encounter  a  shape  down- 
bent.  Blaire,  his  foot  on  a  milestone,  is  reducing  the 
bulk  of  his  boot  with  his  knife,  and  plaster-like  debris 
is  falling  fast.  He  might  be  engaged  in  sculpture. 

"  You  never  had  your  feet  so  white  before,"  jeers 
Barque. 

"  Rotting  apart,"  says  Blaire,  "  you  don't  know 
where  it  is,  that  special  van  ?  "  He  goes  on  to  explain  : 
"  I've  got  to  look  up  the  dentist-van,  so  they  can 
grapple  with  my  ivories,  and  strip  off  the  old  grinders 
that's  left.  Oui,  seems  it's  stationed  here,  the  chop- 
caravan." 

He  folds  up  his  knife,  pockets  it,  and  goes  off  along- 
side the  wall,  possessed  by  the  thought  of  his  jaw-bones' 
new  lease  of  life. 

Once  more  we  put  up  our  beggars'  petition  :  "  Good- 
day,  madame ;  you  haven't  got  a  little  corner  where 
we  could  feed  ?  We  would  pay,  of  course,  we  would 
pay— 

"  No." 

Through  the  glass  of  the  low  window  we  see  lifted 
the  face  of  an  old  man — like  a  fish  in  a  bowl,  it  looks — 
a  face  curiously  flat,  and  lined  with  parallel  wrinkles, 
like  a  page  of  old  manuscript. 

"  You've  the  little  shed  there." 

"  There's  no  room  in  the  shed,  and  when  the  washing's 
done  there " 

Barque  seizes  the  chance.  "  It'll  do  very  likely. 
May  we  see  it  ?  " 

"  We  do  the  washing  there,"  mutters  the  woman, 
continuing  to  wield  her  broom. 

"  You  know,"  says  Barque,  with  a  smile  and  an 
engaging  air,  "  we're  not  like  those  disagreeable  people 


SANCTUARY  67 

who  get  drunk  and  make  themselves  a  nuisance.  May 
we  have  a  look?  " 

The  woman  has  let  her  broom  rest.  She  is  thin  and 
inconspicuous.  Her  jacket  hangs  from  her  shoulders 
as  from  a  valise.  Her  face  is  like  cardboard,  stiff  and 
without  expression.  She  looks  at  us  and  hesitates, 
then  grudgingly  leads  the  way  into  a  very  dark  little 
place,  made  of  beaten  earth  and  piled  with  dirty  linen. 

"  It's  splendid,"  cries  Lamuse,  in  all  honesty. 

"  Isn't  she  a  darling,  the  little  kiddie  !  "  says  Barque, 
as  he  pats  the  round  cheek,  like  painted  india-rubber, 
of  a  little  girl  who  is  staring  at  us  with  her  dirty  little 
nose  uplifted  in  the  gloom.  "  Is  she  yours,  madame  ?  " 

"  And  that  one,  too  ?  "  risks  Marthereau,  as  he 
espies  an  over-ripe  infant  on  whose  bladder-like  cheeks 
are  shining  deposits  of  jam,  for  the  ensnaring  of  the 
dust  in  the  air.  He  offers  a  half-hearted  caress  in  the 
direction  of  the  moist  and  bedaubed  countenance. 
The  woman  does  not  deign  an  answer. 

So  there  we  are,  trifling  and  grinning,  like  beggars 
whose  plea  still  hangs  fire. 

Lamuse  whispers  to  me,  in  a  torment  of  fear  and 
cupidity,  "  Let's  hope  she'll  catch  on,  the  filthy  old  slut. 
It's  grand  here,  and,  you  know,  everything  else  is 
pinched ! " 

"  There's  no  table,"  the  woman  says  at  last. 

"  Don't  worry  about  the  table,"  Barque  exclaims. 
"  Tenez!  there,  put  away  in  that  corner,  the  old  door; 
that  would  make  us  a  table." 

"  You're  not  going  to  trail  me  about  and  upset  all 
my  work  !  "  replies  the  cardboard  woman  suspiciously, 
and  with  obvious  regret  that  she  had  not  chased  us 
away  immediately. 

"  Don't  worry,  I  tell  you.  Look,  I'll  show  you. 
Hey,  Lamuse,  old  cock,  give  me  a  hand." 

Under  the  displeased  glances  of  the  virago  we  place 
the  old  door  on  a  couple  of  barrels. 

"•With  a  bit  of  a  rub-down,"  says  I,  "that  will  be 
perfect." 


68  UNDER   FIRE 

"  Eh,  out,  maman,  a  flick  with  a  brush  '11  do  us 
instead  of  tablecloth." 

The  woman  hardly  knows  what  to  say ;  she  watches 
us  spitefully  :  "  There's  only  two  stools,  and  how  many 
are  there  of  you  ?  " 

"  About  a  dozen." 

"  A  dozen.     Jesus  Maria  !  " 

"  What  does  it  matter?  That'll  be  all  right,  seeing 
there's  a  plank  here — and  that's  a  bench  ready-made, 
eh,  Lamuse  ?  " 

"  Course,"  says  Lamuse. 

"  I  want  that  plank,"  says  the  woman.  "  Some 
soldiers  that  were  here  before  you  have  tried  already 
to  take  it  away." 

"  But  us,  we're  not  thieves,"  suggests  Lamuse  gently, 
so  as  not  to  irritate  the  creature  that  has  our  comfort 
at  her  disposal. 

"  I  don't  say  you  are,  but  soldiers,  vous  savez,  they 
smash  everything  up.     Oh,  the  misery  of  this  war  !  " 
^  "  Well  then,  how  much  '11  it  be,  to  hire  the   table, 
and  to  heat  up  a  thing  or  two  on  the  stove  ?  " 

"  It'll  be  twenty  sous  a  day,"  announces  the  hostess 
with  restraint,  as  though  we  were  wringing  that  amount 
from  her. 

"  It's  dear,"  says  Lamuse. 

"  It's  what  the  others  gave  me  that  were  here,  and 
they  were  very  kind,  too,  those  gentlemen,  and  it  was 
worth  my  while  to  cook  for  them.  /  know  it's  not 
difficult  for  soldiers.  If  you  think  it's  too  much,  it's 
no  job  to  find  other  customers  for  this  room  and  this 
table  and  the  stove,  and  who  wouldn't  be  in  twelves. 
They're  coming  along  all  the  time,  and  they'd  pay  still 
more,  if  I  wanted.  A  dozen  ! — " 

Lamuse  hastens  to  add,  "  I  said  '  It's  dear/  but 
still,  it'll  do,  eh,  you  others  ?  "  On  this  downright 
question  we  record  our  votes. 

"  We  could  do  well  with  a  drop  to  drink,"  says 
Lamuse.  "  Do  you  sell  wine  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  woman,  but  added,  shaking  with 


SANCTUARY  69 

anger,  "  You  see,  the  military  authority  forces  them 
that's  got  wine  to  sell  it  at  fifteen  sous !  Fifteen 
sous !  The  misery  of  this  cursed  war  !  One  loses  at 
it,  at  fifteen  sous,  monsieur.  So  I  don't  sell  any  wine. 
I've  got  plenty  for  ourselves.  I  don't  say  but  some- 
times, and  just  to  oblige,  I  don't  allow  some  to  people 
that  one  knows,  people  that  knows  what  things  are,  but 
of  course,  messieurs,  not  at  fifteen  sous." 

Lamuse  is  one  of  those  people  "  that  knows  what 
things  are."  He  grabs  at  his  water-bottle,  which  is 
hanging  as  usual  on  his  hip.  "  Give  me  a  litre  of  it. 
That'll  be  what  ?  " 

"  That'll  be  twenty-two  sous,  same  as  it  cost  me. 
But  you  know  it's  just  to  oblige  you,  because  you're 
soldiers." 

Barque,  losing  patience,  mutters  an  aside.  The 
woman  throws  him  a  surly  glance,  and  makes  as  if 
to  hand  Lamuse 's  bottle  back  to  him.  But  Lamuse, 
launched  upon  the  hope  of  drinking  wine  at  last,  so 
that  his  cheeks  redden  as  if  the  draught  already  per- 
vaded them  with  its  grateful  hue,  hastens  to  intervene — 

"  Don't  be  afraid — it's  between  ourselves,  la  mere, 
we  won't  give  you  away." 

She  raves  on,  rigid  and  bitter,  against  the  limited 
price  on  wine;  and,  overcome  by  his  lusty  thirst, 
Lamuse  extends  the  humiliation  and  surrender  of 
conscience  so  far  as  to  say,  "  No  help  for  it,  madame ! 
It's  a  military  order,  so  it's  no  use  trying  to  under- 
stand it." 

She  leads  us  into  the  store-room.  Three  fat  barrels 
occupy  it  in  impressive  rotundity.  "  Is  this  your  little 
private  store  ?  " 

"  She  knows  her  way  about,  the  old  lady,"  growls 
Barque. 

The  shrew  turns  on  her  heel,  truculent  :  "  Would 
you  have  me  ruin  myself  by  this  miserable  war  ?  I've 
about  enough  of  losing  money  all  ways  at  once." 

"  How?  "  insists  Barque. 

11  I  can  see  you're  not  going  to  risk  your  money  !  " 


70  UNDER  FIRE 

"  That's  right — we  only  risk  our  skins." 

We  intervene,  disturbed  by  the  tone  of  menace  for 
our  present  concern  that  the  conversation  has  assumed. 
But  the  door  of  the  wine-cellar  is  shaken,  and  a  man's 
voice  comes  through.  "  Hey,  Palmyra  !  "  it  calls. 

The  woman  hobbles  away,  discreetly  leaving  the 
door  open.  "  That's  all  right — we've  taken  root  !  " 
Lamuse  says. 

"  What  dirty  devils  these  people  are  !  "  murmurs 
Barque,  who  finds  his  reception  hard  to  stomach. 

"  It's  shameful  and  sickening,"  says  Marthereau. 

"  One  would  think  it  was  the  first  time  you'd  had 
any  of  it  !  " 

"  And  you,  old  gabbler,"  chides  Barque,  "  that  says 
prettily  to  the  wine-robber,  '  Can't  be  helped,  it's  a 
military  order '  !  Gad,  old  man,  you're  not  short  of 
cheek  !  " 

"What  else  could  I  do  or  say?  We  should  have 
had  to  go  into  mourning  for  our  table  and  our  wine. 
She  could  make  us  pay  forty  sous  for  the  wine,  and  we 
should  have  had  it  all  the  same,  shouldn't  we  ?  Very 
well,  then,  got  to  think  ourselves  jolly  lucky.  I'll 
admit  I'd  no  confidence,  and  I  was  afraid  it  was  no  go." 

"  I  know;  it's  the  same  tale  everywhere  and  always, 
but  all  the  same " 

"Damn  the  thieving  natives,  ah,  out!  Some  of 
'em  must  be  making  fortunes.  Everybody  can't  go 
and  get  killed." 

"  Ah,  the  gallant  people  of  the  East  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  the  gallant  people  of  the  North  !  " 

"  Who  welcome  us  with  open  arms  !  " 

"  With  open  hands,  yes " 

"  I  tell  you,"  Marthereau  says  again,  "it's  a  shame 
and  it's  sickening." 

"  Shut  it  up — there's  the  she -beast  coming  back/' 

We  took  a  turn  round  to  quarters  to  announce  our 
success,  and  then  went  shopping.  When  we  returned 
to  our  new  dining-room,  we  were  hustled  by  the  pre- 
parations for  lunch.  Barque  had  been  to  the  rations 


SANCTUARY  71 

distribution,  and  had  managed,  thanks  to  personal 
relations  with  the  cook  (who  was  a  conscientious 
objector  to  fractional  divisions),  to  secure  the  potatoes 
and  meat  that  formed  the  rations  for  all  the  fifteen 
men  of  the  squad.  He  had  bought  some  lard — a  little 
lump  for  fourteen  sous — and  some  one  was  frying.  He 
had  also  acquired  some  green  peas  in  tins,  four  tins. 
Mesnil  Andre's  tin  of  veal  in  jelly  would  be  a  hors- 
d'oeuvre. 

"  And  not  a  dirty  thing  in  all  the  lot  !  "  said  Lamuse, 
enchanted. 

****** 

We  inspected  the  kitchen.  Barque  was  moving 
cheerfully  about  the  iron  Dutch  oven  whose  hot  and 
steaming  bulk  furnished  all  one  side  of  the  room. 

"  I've  added  a  stewpan  on  the  quiet  for  the  soup," 
he  whispered  to  me.  Lifting  the  lid  of  the  stove — "  Fire 
isn't  too  hot.  It's  half  an  hour  since  I  chucked  the 
meat  in,  arid  the  water's  clean  yet." 

A  minute  later  we  heard  some  one  arguing  with  the 
hostess.  This  extra  stove  was  the  matter  in  dispute. 
There  was  no  more  room  left  for  her  on  her  stove.  They 
had  told  her  they  would  only  need  a  casserole,  and 
she  had  believed  them.  If  she  had  known  they  were 
going  to  make  trouble  she  would  not  have  let  the 
room  to  them.  Barque,  the  good  fellow,  replied  jokingly, 
and  succeeded  in  soothing  the  monster. 

One  by  one  the  others  arrived.  They  winked  and 
rubbed  their  hands  together,  full  of  toothsome  anticipa- 
tion, like  the  guests  at  a  wedding-breakfast.  As  they 
break  away  from  the  dazzling  light  outside  and  pene- 
trate this  cube  of  darkness,  they  are  blinded,  and  stand 
like  bewildered  owls  for  several  minutes. 

"  It's  not  too  brilliant  in  here,"  says  Mesnil  Joseph, 

"  Come,  old  chap,  what  do  you  want  ?  "  The  others 
exclaim  in  chorus,  "  We're  damned  well  off  here." 
And  I  can  see  heads  nodding  assent  in  the  cavern's 
twilight. 

An  incident  :  Farfadet  having  by  accident   rubbed 


72  UNDER  FIRE 

against  the  damp  and  dirty  wall,  his  shoulder  has 
brought  away  from  it  a  smudge  so  big  and  black  that 
it  can  be  seen  even  here.  Farfadet,  so  careful  of  his 
appearance,  growls,  and  in  avoiding  a  second  contact 
with  the  wall,  knocks  the  table  so  that  his  spoon  drops 
to  the  ground.  Stooping,  he  fumbles  among  the  loose 
earth,  where  dust  and  spiders'  webs  for  years  have 
silently  fallen.  When  he  recovers  his  spoon  it  is  almost 
black,  and  webby  threads  hang  from  it.  Evidently  it 
is  disastrous  to  let  anything  fall  on  the  ground.  One 
must  live  here  with  great  care. 

Lamuse  brings  down  his  fat  hand,  like  a  pork- pie, 
between  two  of  the  places  at  table.  "  Allans,  d  table  !  " 
We  fall  to.  The  meal  is  abundant  and  of  excellent 
quality.  The  sound  of  conversation  mingles  with  those 
of  emptying  bottles  and  filling  jaws.  While  we  taste 
the  joy  of  eating  at  a  table,  a  glimmer  of  light  trickles 
through  a  vent-hole,  and  wraps  in  dusty  dawn  a  piece 
of  the  atmosphere  and  a  patch  of  the  table,  while  its 
reflex  lights  up  a  plate,  a  cap's  peak,  an  eye.  Secretly 
I  take  stock  of  this  gloomy  little  celebration  that 
overflows  with  gaiety. 

Biquet  is  telling  about  his  suppliant  sorrows  in  quest 
of  a  washerwoman  who  would  agree  to  do  him  the 
good  turn  of  washing  some  linen,  but  "  it  was  too 
damned  dear."  Tulacque  describes  the  queue  outside 
the  grocer's.  One  might  not  go  in ;  customers  were 
herded  outside,  like  sheep.  "  And  although  you  were 
outside,  if  you  weren't  satisfied,  and  groused  too  much, 
they  chased  you  off." 

Any  news  yet  ?  It  is  said  that  severe  penalties  have 
been  imposed  on  those  who  plunder  the  population, 
and  there  is  already  a  list  of  convictions.  Volpatte 
has  been  sent  down.  Men  of  Class  '93  are  going  to  be 
sent  to  the  rear,  and  Pepere  is  one  of  them. 

When  Barque  brings  in  the  harvest  of  the  fry-pan, 
he  announces  that  our  hostess  has  soldiers  at  her  table 
— ambulance  men  of  the  machine-guns.  "  They  thought 
they  were  the  best  off,  but  it's  us  that's  that,"  says 


SANCTUARY  73 

Fouillade  with  decision,  lolling  grandly  in  the  darkness 
of  the  narrow  and  tainted  hole  where  we  are  just  as 
confusedly  heaped  together  as  in  a  dug-out.  But  who 
would  think  of  making  the  comparison? 

"  Vous  savcz  pas''  says  Pepin,  "  the  chaps  of  the  gth, 
they're  in  clover  !  An  old  woman  has  taken  them  in 
for  nothing,  because  of  her  old  man  that's  been  dead 
fifty  years  and  was  a  rifleman  once  on  a  time.  Seems 
she's  even  given  them  a  rabbit  for  nix,  and  they're  just 
worrying  it  jugged." 

"  There's  good  sorts  everywhere.  But  the  boys  of 
the  Qth  had  famous  luck  to  fall  into  the  only  shop  of 
good  sorts  in  the  whole  village." 

Palmyra  comes  with  the  coffee,  which  she  supplies. 
She  thaws  a  little,  listens  to  us,  and  even  asks  questions 
in  a  supercilious  way  :  "  Why  do  you  call  the  adjutant 
'  le  juteux  '  ?  " 

Barque  replies  sententiously,  "  'Twas  ever  thus." 

When  she  has  disappeared,  we  criticise  our  coffee. 
"  Talk  about  clear  !  You  can  see  the  sugar  ambling 
round  the  bottom  of  the  glass." — "  She  charges  six 
sous  for  it." — "  It's  filtered  water." 

The  door  half  opens,  and  admits  a  streak  of  light. 
The  face  of  a  little  boy  is  defined  in  it.  We  entice  him 
in  like  a  kitten  and  give  him  a  bit  of  chocolate. 

Then,  "  My  name's  Charlie,"  chirps  the  child.  "  Our 
house,  that's  close  by.  We've  got  soldiers,  too.  We 
always  had  them,  we  had.  We  sell  them  everything 
they  want.  Only,  voild,  sometimes  they  get  drunk." 

"  Tell  me,  little  one,  come  here  a  bit,"  says  Co  con, 
taking  the  boy  between  his  knees.  "  Listen  now. 
Your  papa,  he  says,  doesn't  he,  '  Let's  hope  the  war 
goes  on,'  eh?  "  1 

"  Of  course,"  says  the  child,  tossing  his  head,  "  be- 
cause we're  getting  rich.  He  says,  by  the  end  of  May, 
we  shall  have  got  fifty  thousand  francs." 

"  Fifty  thousand  francs  !     Impossible  !  " 

1  See  p.  32  ante;  another  reference  to  the  famous  phrase, 
"  Peurvu  que  les  civils  tiennent." — Tr. 


74  UNDER  FIRE 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  the  child  insists,  stamping,  "  he  said 
it  to  mamma.  Papa  wished  it  could  be  always  like 
that.  Mamma,  sometimes,  she  isn't  sure,  because  my 
brother  Adolphe  is  at  the  front.  But  we're  going  to 
get  him  sent  to  the  rear,  and  then  the  war  can  go  on." 

These  confidences  are  disturbed  by  sharp  cries, 
coming  from  the  rooms  of  our  hosts.  Biquet  the 
mobile  goes  to  inquire.  "  It's  nothing,"  says  he,  coming 
back;  "  it's  the  good  man  slanging  the  woman  because 
she  doesn't  know  how  to  do  things,  he  says,  because 
she's  made  the  mustard  in  a  tumbler,  and  he  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing,  he  says." 

We  get  up,  and  leave  the  strong  odour  of  pipes, 
wine,  and  stale  coffee  in  our  cave.  As  soon  as  we  have 
crossed  the  threshold,  a  heaviness  of  heat  puffs  in  our 
faces,  fortified  by  the  mustiness  of  frying  that  dwells 
in  the  kitchen  and  emerges  every  time  the  door  is 
opened.  We  pass  through  legions  of  flies  which,  massed 
on  the  walls  in  black  hordes,  fly  abroad  in  buzzing 
swarms  as  we  pass  :  "It's  beginning  again  like  last 
year  !  Flies  outside,  lice  inside " 

"  And  microbes  still  farther  inside  !  " 

In  a  corner  of  this  dirty  little  house  and  its  litter  of 
old  rubbish,  its  dusty  debris  of  last  year  and  the  relics 
of  so  many  summers  gone  by,  among  the  furniture  and 
household  gear,  something  is  moving.  It  is  an  old 
simpleton  with  a  long  bald  neck,  pink  and  rough, 
making  you  think  of  a  fowl's  heck  which  has  prema- 
turely moulted  through  disease.  His  profile  is  that  of 
a  hen,  too — no  chin  and  a  long  nose.  A  grey  overlay 
of  beard  felts  his  receded  cheek,  and  you  see  his  heavy 
eyelids,  rounded  and  horny,  move  up  and  down  like 
shutters  on  the  dull  beads  of  his  eyes. 

Barque  has  already  noticed  him  :  "  Watch  him — 
he's  a  treasure-seeker.  He  says  there's  one  somewhere 
in  this  hovel  that  he's  stepfather  to.  You'll  see  him 
directly  go  on  all-fours  and  push^  his  old  phizog  -  in 
every  corner  there  is.  Tiens,  watch  him." 

With  the  aid  of  his  stick,  the  old  man  proceeded  to 


SANCTUARY  75 

take  methodical  soundings.  He  tapped  along  the  foot 
of  the  walls  and  on  the  floor-tiles.  He  was  hustled  by 
the  coming  and  going  of  the  occupants  of  the  house, 
by  callers,  and  by  the  swing  of  Palmyra's  broom ;  but 
she  let  him  alone  and  said  nothing,  thinking  to  herself, 
no  doubt,  that  the  exploitation  of  the  national  calamity 
is  a  more  profitable  treasure  than  problematical  caskets. 

Two  gossips  are  standing  in  a  recess  and  exchanging 
confidences  in  low  voices,  hard  by  an  old  map  of  Russia 
that  is  peopled  with  flies.  "  Oui,  but  it's  with  the 
Picon  bitters  that  you've  got  to  be  careful.  If  you 
haven't  got  a  light  touch,  you  can't  get  your  sixteen 
glasses  out  of  a  bottle,  and  so  you  lose  too  much  profit. 
I  don't  say  but  what  one's  all  right  in  one's  purse, 
even  so,  but  one  doesn't  make  enough.  To  guard 
against  that,  the  retailers  ought  to  agree  among  them- 
selves, but  the  understanding's  so  difficult  to  bring  off, 
even  when  it's  in  the  general  interest." 

Outside  there  is  torrid  sunshine,  riddled  with  flies. 
The  little  beasts,  quite  scarce  but  a  few  days  ago, 
multiply  everywhere  the  murmur  of  their  minute  and 
innumerable  engines.  I  go  out  in  the  company  of 
Lamuse ;  we  are  going  for  a  saunter.  One  can  be  at 
peace  to-day — it  is  complete  rest,  by  reason  of  the 
overnight  march.  We  might  sleep,  but  it  suits  us  much 
better  to  use  the  rest  for  an  extensive  promenade. 
To-morrow,  the  exercise  and  fatigues  will  get  us  again. 
There  are  some,  less  lucky  than  we,  who  are  already 
caught  in  the  cogwheels  of  fatigue.  To  Lamuse,  who 
invites  him  to  come  and  stroll  with  us,  Corvisart  replies, 
screwing  up  the  little  round  nose  that  is  laid  flatly  on 
his  oblong  face  like  a  cork,  "  Can't — I'm  on  manure  !  " 
He  points  to  the  shovel  and  broom  by  whose  help  he 
is  performing  his  task  of  scavenger  and  night-soil  man. 

We  walk  languidly.  The  afternoon  lies  heavy  on 
the  drowsy  land  and  on  stomachs  richly  provided  and 
embellished  with  food.  The  remarks  we  exchange  are 
infrequent. 

Over  there,   we   hear  noises.     Barque   has  fallen   a 


76  UNDER  FIRE 

victim  to  a  menagerie  of  housewives;  and  the  scene 
is  pointed  by  a  pale  little  girl,  her  hair  tied  behind  in  a 
pencil  of  tow  and  her  mouth  embroidered  with  fever 
spots,  and  by  women  who  are  busy  with  some  unsavoury 
job  of  washing  in  the  meagre  shade  before  their  doors. 

Six  men  go  by,  led  by  a  quartermaster  corporal. 
They  carry  heaps  of  new  greatcoats  and  bundles  of 
boots.  Lamuse  regards  his  bloated  and  horny  feet — 
"  I  must  have  some  new  sheds,  and  no  mistake ;  a  bit 
more  and  you'll  see  my  splay-feet  through  these  ones. 
Can't  go  marching  on  the  skin  of  my  tongs,  eh  ?  " 

An  aeroplane  booms  overhead.  We  follow  its  evolu- 
tions with  our  faces  skyward,  our  necks  twisted,  our 
eyes  watering  at  the  piercing  brightness  of  the  sky. 
Lamuse  declares  to  me,  when  we  have  brought  our 
gaze  back  to  earth,  "  Those  machines  '11  never  become 
practical,  never." 

11  How  can  you  say  that  ?  Look  at  the  progress 
they've  made  already,  and  the  speed  of  it." 

:s  Yes,  but  they'll  stop  there.  They'll  never  do  any 
better,  never." 

This  time  I  do  not  challenge  the  dull  and  obstinate 
denial  that  ignorance  opposes  to  the  promise  of  pro- 
gress, and  I  let  my  big  comrade  alone  in  his  stubborn 
belief  that  the  wonderful  effort  of  science  and  industry 
has  been  suddenly  cut  short. 

Having  thus  begun  to  reveal  to  me  his  inmost  thoughts, 
Lamuse  continues.  Coming  nearer  and  lowering  his 
head,  he  says  to  me,  "  You  know  she's  here — Eudoxie  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,  old  chap.  You  never  notice  anything,  you 
don't,  but  /  noticed,"  and  Lamuse  smiles  at  me  indul- 
gently. "  Now,  do  you  catch  on?  If  she's  come  here, 
it's  because  we  interest  her,  eh  ?  She's  followed  us 
for  one  of  us,  and  don't  you  forget  it." 

He  gets  going  again.  "  My  boy,  d'you  want  to 
know  what  /  say?  She's  come  after  me." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  it,  old  chap  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  the  ox-man,  in  a  hollow  voice.     "  First, 


SANCTUARY  77 

I  want  her.  Then,  twice,  old  man,  I've  found  her 
exactly  in  my  path,  in  mine,  d'you  understand?  You 
may  tell  me  that  she  ran  away;  that's  because  she's 
timid,  that,  yes " 

He  stopped  dead  in  the  middle  of  the  street  and 
looked  straight  at  me.  The  heavy  face,  greasily  moist 
on  the  cheeks  and  nose,  was  serious.  His  rotund  fist 
went  up  to  the  dark  yellow  moustache,  so  carefully 
pointed,  and  smoothed  it  tenderly.  Then  he  continued 
to  lay  bare  his  heart  to  me — 

"  I  want  her;  but,  you  know,  I  shall  marry  her  all 
right,  I  shall.  She's  called  Eudoxie  Dumail.  At  first, 
I  wasn't  thinking  of  marrying  her.  But  since  I've  got 
to  know  her  family  name,  it  seems  to  me  that  it's 
different,  and  I  should  get  on  all  right.  Ah,  nom  de 
Dieu  /  She's  so  pretty,  that  woman  !  And  it's  not 
only  that  she's  pretty — ah  !  " 

The  huge  child  was  overflowing  with  sentiment  and 
emotion,  and  trying  to  make  them  speak  to  me.  "  Ah, 
my  boy,  there  are  times  when  I've  just  got  to  hold 
myself  back  with  a  hook,"  came  the  strained  and 
gloomy  tones,  while  the  blood  flushed  to  the  fleshy 
parts  of  his  cheeks  and  neck.  "  She's  so  beautiful, 
she's — and  me,  I'm — she's  so  unlike — you'll  have  noticed 
it,  surely,  you  that  notices — she's  a  country  girl,  oui  ; 
eh  bien,  she's  got  a  God  knows  what  that's  better  than 
a  Parisienne,  even  a  toffed-up  and  stylish  Parisienne, 
pas  ?  She — as  for  me,  I " 

He  puckered  his  red  eyebrows.  He  would  have  liked 
to  tell  me  all  the  splendour  of  his  thoughts,  but  he  knew 
not  the  art  of  expressing  himself,  so  he  was  silent.  He 
remained  alone  in  his  voiceless  emotion,  as  always 
alone. 

We  went  forward  side  by  side  between  the  rows  of 
houses.  In  front  of  the  doors,  drays  laden  with  casks 
were  drawn  up.  The  front  windows  blossomed  with 
many-hued  heaps  of  jam-pots,  stacks  of  tinder  pipe- 
lighters — everything  that  the  soldier  is  compelled  to 
buy.  Nearly  all  the  natives  had  gone  into  grocery. 


78  UNDER  FIRE 

Business  had  been  getting  out  of  gear  locally  for  a  long 
time,  but  now  it  was  booming.  Every  one,  smitten  with 
the  fever  of  sum-totals  and  dazzled  by  the  multiplication 
table,  plunged  into  trade. 

Bells  tolled,  and  the  procession  of  a  military  funeral 
came  out.  A  forage  wagon,  driven  by  a  transport  man, 
carried  a  coffin  wrapped  in  a  flag.  Following,  were  a 
detachment  of  men,  an  adjutant,  a  padre,  and  a  civilian. 

"  The  poor  little  funeral  with  its  tail  lopped  off  !  " 
said  Lamuse.  "Ah,  those  that  are  dead  are  very  happy, 
But  only  sometimes,  not  always — voild  I  " 

We  have  passed  the  last  of  the  houses.  In  the  country, 
beyond  the  end  of  the  street,  the  fighting  convoy 
and  the  regimental  convoy  have  settled  themselves, 
the  travelling  kitchens  and  jingling  carts  that  follow 
them  with  odds  and  ends  of  equipment,  the  Red  Cross 
wagons,  the  motor  lorries,  the  forage  carts,  the  baggage- 
master's  gig.  The  tents  of  drivers  and  conductors 
swarm  around  the  vehicles.  On  the  open  spaces  horses 
lift  their  metallic  eyes  to  the  sky's  emptiness,  with  their 
feet  on  barren  earth.  Four  poilus  are  setting  up  a  table. 
The  open-air  smithy  is  smoking.  This  heterogeneous 
and  swarming  city,  planted  in  ruined  fields  whose  straight 
or  winding  ruts  are  stiffening  in  the  heat,  is  already 
broadly  valanced  with  rubbish  and  dung. 

On  the  edge  of  the  camp  a  big,  white-painted  van 
stands  out  from  the  others  in  its  tidy  cleanliness.  Had 
it  been  in  the  middle  of  a  fair,  one  would  have  said  it 
was  the  stylish  show  where  one  pays  more  than  at  the 
others. 

This  is  the  celebrated  "  stomatological "  van  that 
Blaire  was  asking  about.  In  point  of  fact,  Blaire  is 
there  in  front,  looking  at  it.  For  some  long  time,  no 
doubt,  he  has  been  going  round  it  and  gazing.  Field- 
hospital  orderly  Sambremeuse,  of  the  Division,  return- 
ing from  errands,  is  climbing  the  portable  stair  of  painted 
wood  which  leads  to  the  van  door.  In  his  arms  he  carries 
a  bulky  box  of  biscuits,  a  loaf  of  fancy  bread,  and  a  bottle 
of  champagne.  Blaire  questions  him — 


SANCTUARY  79 

"  Tell  me,  Sir  Rump,  this  horse-box — is  it  the 
dentist's  ?  " 

"  It's  written  up  there,"  replies  Sambremeuse — a  little 
corpulent  man,  clean,  close-shaven,  and  his  chin  starch- 
white.  "  If  you  can't  see  it,  you  don't  want  the  dentist 
to  look  after  your  grinders,  you  want  the  vet  to  clean 
your  eyesight." 

Blaire  comes  nearer  and  scrutinises  the  establishment . 
"  It's  a  queer  shop,"  he  says.  He  goes  nearer  yet,  draws 
back,  hesitates  to  risk  his  gums  in  that  carriage.  At 
last  he  decides,  puts  a  foot  on  the  stair,  and  disappears 
inside  the  caravan. 

We  continue  our  walk,  and  turn  into  a  footpath 
where  are  high,  dusty  bushes  and  the  noises  are  subdued. 
The  sunshine  blazes  everywhere  ;  it  heats  and  roasts  the 
hollow  of  the  way,  spreading  blinding  and  burning  white- 
ness in  patches,  and  shimmers  in  the  sky  of  faultless  blue. 

At  the  first  turning,  almost  before  we  had  heard  the 
light  grating  of  a  footstep,  we  are  face  to  face  with 
Eudoxie  ! 

Lamuse  utters  a  deep  exclamation.  Perhaps  he 
fancies  once  more  that  she  is  looking  for  him,  and 
believes  that  she  is  the  gift  of  his  destiny.  He  goes  up 
to  her — all  the  bulk  of  him. 

She  looks  at  him  and  stops,  framed  by  the  hawthorn. 
Her  strangely  slight  and  pale  face  is  apprehensive,  the 
lids  tremble  on  her  magnificent  eyes.  She  is  bare- 
headed, and  in  the  hollowed  neck  of  her  linen  corsage 
there  is  the  dawning  of  her  flesh.  So  near,  she  is  truly 
enticing  in  the  sunshine,  this  woman  crowned  with  gold, 
and  one's  glance  is  impelled  and  astonished  by  the  moon- 
like  purity  of  her  skin.  Her  eyes  sparkle ;  her  teeth, 
too,  glisten  white  in  the  living  wound  of  her  half -open 
mouth,  red  as  her  heart. 

"  Tell  me — I  am  going  to  tell  you "  pants  Lamuse. 

"  I  like  you  so  much "  He  outstretches  his  arm 

towards  the  motionless,  beloved  wayfarer. 

She  starts,  and  replies  to  him,  "  Leave  me  alone — you 
disgust  me  !  " 


8o  UNDER  FIRE 

The  man's  hand  is  thrown  over  one  of  her  little  ones. 
She  tries  to  draw  it  back,  and  shakes  it  to  free  herself. 
Her  intensely  fair  hair  falls  loose,  flaming.  He  draws 
her  to  him.  His  head  bends  towards  her,  and  his 
lips  are  ready.  His  desire — the  wish  of  all  his  strength 
and  all  his  life — is  to  caress  her.  He  would  die  that 
he  might  touch  her  with  his  lips.  But  she  struggles, 
and  utters  a  choking  cry.  She  is  trembling,  and  her 
beautiful  face  is  disfigured  with  abhorrence. 

I  go  up  and  put  my  hand  on  my  friend's  shoulder, 
but  my  intervention  is  not  needed.  Lamuse  recoils  and 
growls,  vanquished. 

"  Are  you  taken  that  way  often  ?  "  cries  Eudoxie. 

"  No  !  "  groans  the  miserable  man,  baffled,  over- 
whelmed, bewildered. 

"  Don't  do  it  again,  vous  savez ! "  she  says,  and 
goes  off  panting,  and  he  does  not  even  watch  her 
go.  He  stands  with  his  arms  hanging,  gazing  at  the 
place  whence  she  has  gone,  tormented  to  the  quick, 
torn  from  his  dreams  of  her,  and  nothing  left  him  to 
desire. 

I  lead  him  away  and  he  comes  in  dumb  agitation, 
sniffling  and  out  of  breath,  as  though  he  had  run  a  long 
way.  The  mass  of  his  big  head  is  bent.  In  the  pitiless 
light  of  eternal  spring,  he  is  like  the  poor  Cyclops  who 
roamed  the  shores  of  ancient  Sicily  in  the  beginnings 
of  time — like  a  huge  toy,  a  thing  of  derision,  that  a 
child's  shining  strength  could  subdue. 

The  itinerant  wine-seller,  whose  barr,ow  is  hunch- 
backed with  a  barrel,  has  sold  several  litres  to  the  men 
on  guard  duty.  He  disappears  round  the  bend  in  the 
road,  with  his  face  flat  and  yellow  as  a  Camembert,  his 
scanty,  thin  hair  frayed  into  dusty  flakes,  and  so 
emaciated  himself  that  one  could  fancy  his  feet  were 
fastened  to  his  trunk  by  strings  through  his  flopping 
trousers. 

And  among  the  idle  poilus  of  the  guard-room  at  the 
end  of  the  place,  under  the  wing  of  the  shaking  and 
rattling  signboard  which  serves  as  advertisement  of  the 


SANCTUARY  81 

village,1  a  conversation  is  set  up  on  the  subject  of  this 
wandering  buffoon. 

"  He  has  a  dirty  neb/'  says  Bigornot ;  "  and  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  think — they've  no  business  to  let  civvies 
mess  about  at  the  front  with  their  pretty  ringlets,  and 
especially  individuals  that  you  don't  know  where  they 
come  from." 

"  You're  quite  crushing,  you  portable  louse,"  replies 
Cornet. 

"  Never  mind,  shoe-sole  face,"  Bigornot  insists ;  "  we 
trust  'em  too  much.  I  know  what  I'm  saying  when  I 
open  it." 

"  You  don't,"  says  Canard.  "  Pepere's  going  to  the 
rear." 

"  The  women  here,"  murmurs  La  Mollette,  "  they're 
ugly;  they're  a  lot  of  frights." 

The  other  men  on  guard,  their  concentrated  gaze 
roaming  in  space,  watch  two  enemy  aeroplanes  and  the 
intricate  skeins  they  are  spinning.  Around  the  stiff 
mechanical  birds  up  there  that  appear  now  black  like 
crows  and  now  white  like  gulls,  according  to  the  play 
of  the  light,  clouds  of  bursting  shrapnel  stipple  the 
azure,  and  seem  like  a  long  flight  of  snowflakes  in  the 
sunshine. 

As  we  are  going  back,  two  strollers  come  up — 
Carassus  and  Cheyssier.  They  announce  that  mess- 
man  Pepere  is  going  to  the  rear,  to  be  sent  to  a  Terri- 
torial regiment,  having  come  under  the  operation  of 
the  Dalbiez  Act. 

"  That's  a  hint  for  Blaire,"  says  Carassus,  who  has  a 
funny  big  nose  in  the  middle  of  his  face  that  suits  him  ill. 

In  the  village  groups  of  poilus  go  by,  or  in  twos,  joined 
by  the  crossing  bonds  of  converse.  We  see  the  solitary 
ones  unite  in  couples,  separate,  then  come  together 
again  with  a  new  inspiration  of  talk,  drawn  to  each  other 
as  if  magnetised. 

1  Every  French  village  has  a  plaque  attached  to  the  first  house 
on  each  road  of  approach,  giving  its  name  and  the  distance  to 
the  next. — Tr. 
G 


82  UNDER  FIRE 

In  the  middle  of  an  excited  crowd  white  papers  are 
waving.  It  is  the  newspaper  hawker,  who  is  selling  for 
two  sous  papers  which  should  be  one  sou.  Fouillade  is 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  thin  as  the  legs  of 
a  hare.  At  the  corner  of  a  house  Paradis  shows  to  the 
sun  a  face  pink  as  ham.  gg 

Biquet  joins  us  again,  in  undress,  with  a  jacket  and 
cap  of  the  police.  He  is  licking  his  chops  :  "I  met 
some  pals  and  we've  had  a  drink.  You  see,  to- 
morrow one  starts  scratching  again,  and  cleaning  his 
old  rags  and  his  catapult.  But  my  greatcoat  ! — going 
to  be  some  job  to  filter  that  I  It  isn't  a  greatcoat  any 
longer — it's  armour-plate." 

Montreuil,  a  clerk  at  the  office,  appears  and  hails 
Biquet :  "  Hey,  riff -raff  !  A  letter  !  Been  chasing  you 
an  hour.  You're  never  to  be  found,  rotter  !  " 

"  Can't  be  both  here  and  there,  looney.  Give  us  a 
squint."  He  examines  the  letter,  balances  it  in  his  hand, 
and  announces  as  he  tears  the  envelope,  "It's  from  the 
old  woman." 

We  slacken  our  pace.  As  he  reads,  he  follows  the 
lines  with  his  finger,  wagging  his  head  with  an  air  of 
conviction,  and  his  lips  moving  like  a  woman's  in  prayer. 

The  throng  increases  the  nearer  we  draw  to  the  middle 
of  the  village.  We  salute  the  commandant  and  the 
black-skirted  padre  who  walks  by  the  other's  side  like 
his  nurse.  We  are  questioned  by  Pigeon,  Guenon,  young 
Escutenaire,  and  Chasseur  Clodore.  Lamuse  appears 
blind  and  deaf,  and  concerned  only  to  walk. 

Bizouarne,  Chanrion,  and  Roquette  arrive  excitedly 
to  announce  big  news — "  D'you  know,  Pepere's  going 
to  the  rear." 

"  Funny,"  says  Biquet,  raising  his  nose  from  his  letter, 
"  how  people  kid  themselves.  The  old  woman's  bothered 
about  me  !  "  He  shows  me  a  passage  in  the  maternal 
epistle  :  "'When  you  get  my  letter,'  "  he  spells  out, 
"  '  no  doubt  you  will  be  in  the  cold  and  mud,  deprived 

of  everything,  mon  pauvre  Eugene  ' "     He  laughs : 

"  It's  ten  days  since  she  put  that  down  for  me,  and  she's 


SANCTUARY  83 

clean  off  it.  We're  not  cold,  'cos  it's  been  fine  since  this 
morning;  and  we're  not  miserable,  because  we've  got 
a  room  that's  good  enough.  We've  had  hard  times, 
but  we're  all  right  now." 

As  we  reach  the  kennel  in  which  we  are  lodgers,  we 
are  thinking  that  sentence  over.  Its  touching  sim- 
plicity affects  me,  shows  me  a  soul — a  host  of  souls. 
Because  the  sun  has  shown  himself,  because  we  have  felt 
a  gleam  and  a  similitude  of  comfort,  suffering  exists  no 
longer,  either  of  the  past  or  the  terrible  future.  "  We're 
all  right  now."  There  is  no  more  to  say. 

Biquet  establishes  himself  at  the  table,  like  a  gentle- 
man, to  write  a  reply.  Carefully  he  lays  abroad  his  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  and  examines  each,  then  smilingly  traces 
the  strictly  regular  lines  of  his  big  handwriting  across 
the  meagre  page. 

"  You'd  laugh,"  he  says,  "  if  you  knew  what  I've 
written  to  the  old  woman."  He  reads  his  letter  again, 
fondles  it,  and  smiles  to  himself. 


VI 

HABITS 

WE  are  enthroned  in  the  back  yard.  The  big  hen, 
white  as  a  cream  cheese,  is  brooding  in  the  depths  of  a 
basket  near  the  coop  whose  imprisoned  occupant  is 
rummaging  about.  But  the  black  hen  is  free  to  travel. 
She  erects  and  withdraws  her  elastic  neck  in  jerks,  and 
advances  with  a  large  and  affected  gait.  One  can  just 
see  her  profile  and  its  twinkling  spangle,  and  her  talk 
appears  to  proceed  from  a  metal  spring.  She  marches, 
glistening  black  and  glossy  like  the  love-locks  of  a  gipsy ; 
and  as  she  marches,  she  unfolds  here  and  there  upon  the 
ground  a  faint  trail  of  chickens. 

These  trifling  little  yellow  balls,  kept  always  by  a 
whispering  instinct  on  the  ebb-tide  to  safety,  hurry  along 
under  the  maternal  march  in  short,  sharp  jerks,  pecking 
as  they  go.  Now  the  train  comes  to  a  full  stop,  for  two 
of  the  chickens  are  thoughtful  and  immobile,  careless 
of  the  parental  clucking. 

"  A  bad  sign,"  saysParadis;  "the  hen  that  reflects 
is  ill."  And  Paradis  uncrosses  and  recrosses  his  legs. 
Beside  him  on  the  bench,  Blaire  extends  his  own,  lets 
loose  a  great  yawn  that  he  maintains  in  placid  dura- 
tion, and  sets  himself  again  to  observe,  for  of  all  of  us 
he  most  delights  in  watching  fowls  during  the  brief  life 
when  they  are  in  such  a  hurry  to  eat. 

And  we  watch  them  in  unison,  not  forgetting  the 
shabby  old  cock,  worn  threadbare.  Where  his  feathers 
have  fallen  appears  the  naked  india-rubber  leg,  lurid  as 
a  grilled  cutlet.  He  approaches  the  white  sitter,  which 
first  turns  her  head  away  in  tart  denial,  with  several 

84 


HABITS  85 

"  No's  '  in  a  muffled  rattle,  and  then  watches  him  with 
the  little  blue  enamel  dials  of  her  eyes. 

"  We're  all  right,"  says  Barque. 

"Watch  the  little  ducks,"  says  Blaire,  "going  along 
the  communication  trench." 

We  watch  a  single  file  of  all-golden  ducklings 
go  past — still  almost  eggs  on  feet — their  big  heads 
pulling  their  little  lame  bodies  along  by  the  string 
of  their  necks,  and  that  quickly.  From  his  corner,  the 
big  dog  follows  them  also  with  his  deeply  dark  eye,  on 
which  the  slanting  sun  has  shaped  a  fine  tawny  ring. 

Beyond  this  rustic  yard  and  over  the  scalloping  of  the 
low  wall,  the  orchard  reveals  itself,  where  a  green  carpet, 
moist  and  thick,  covers  the  rich  soil  and  is  topped  by  a 
screen  of  foliage  with  a  garniture  of  blossom,  some  white 
as  statuary,  others  pied  and  glossy  as  knots  in  neck- 
ties. Beyond  again  is  the  meadow,  where  the  shadowed 
poplars  throw  shafts  of  dark  or  golden  green.  Still 
farther  again  is  a  square  patch  of  upstanding  hops, 
followed  by  a  patch  of  cabbages,  sitting  on  the  ground 
and  dressed  in  line.  In  the  sunshine  of  air  and  of  earth 
we  hear  the  bees,  as  they  work  and  make  music  (in 
deference  to  the  poets),  and  the  cricket  which,  in  defiance 
of  the  fable,  sings  with  no  humility  and  fills  Space  by 
himself. 

Over  yonder,  there  falls  eddying  from  a  poplar's  peak 
a  magpie — half  white,  half  black,  like  a  shred  of  partly- 
burned  paper. 

The  soldiers  outstretch  themselves  luxuriously  on  the 
stone  bench,  their  eyes  half  closed,  and  bask  in  the 
sunshine  that  warms  the  basin  of  the  big  yard  till  it  is 
like  a  bath. 

"  That's  seventeen  days  we've  been  here  !  After 
thinking  we  were  going  away  day  after  day  !  " 

"  One  never  knows,"  said  Paradis,  wagging  his  head 
and  smacking  his  lips. 

Through  the  yard  gate  that  opens  on  to  the  road  we 
see  a  group  of  poilus  strolling,  nose  in  air,  devouring  the 
sunshine ;  and  then,  all  alone,  Tellurure.  In  the  middle 


86  UNDER  FIRE 

of  the  street  he  oscillates  the  prosperous  abdomen  of 
which  he  is  proprietor,  and  rocking  on  legs  arched  like 
basket-handles,  he  expectorates  in  wide  abundance  all 
around  him. 

"  We  thought,  too,  that  we  should  be  as  badly  off  here 
as  in  the  other  quarters.  But  this  time  it's  real  rest, 
both  in  the  time  it  lasts  and  the  kind  it  is." 

"  You're  not  given  too  many  exercises  and  fatigues." 

"And  between  whiles  you  come  in  here  to  loll  about." 

The  old  man  huddled  up  at  the  end  of  the  seat — no 
other  than  the  treasure-seeking  grandfather  whom  we 
saw  the  day  of  our  arrival — came  nearer  and  lifted  his 
finger.  "  When  I  was  a  young  man,  I  was  thought  a 
lot  of  by  women,"  he  asserted,  shaking  his  head.  "  I 
have  led  young  ladies  astray  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  we,  heedless,  our  attention  taken  away 
from  his  senile  prattle  by  the  timely  noise  of  a  cart  that 
was  passing,  laden  and  labouring. 

"  Nowadays,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "  I  only  think 
about  money." 

"  Ah,  out,  the  treasure  you're  looking  for,  papa." 

"  That's  it,"  said  the  old  rustic,  "though  he  felt  the 
scepticism  around  him.  He  tapped  his  cranium  with 
his  forefinger,  which  he  then  extended  towards  the 
house.  "  Take  that  insect  there,"  he  said,  indicating 
a  little  beast  that  ran  along  the  plaster.  "  What  does  it 
say  ?  It  says,  '  I  am  the  spider  that  spins  the  Virgin's 
thread.'  '  And  the  archaic  simpleton  added,  "  One 
must  never  judge  what  people  do,  for  one  can  never  tell 
what  may  happen." 

"  That's  true,"  replied  Paradis  politely.  "He's 
funny,"  said  Mesnil  Andre,  between  his  teeth,  while  he 
sought  the  mirror  in  his  pocket  to  look  at  the  facial 
benefit  of  fine  weather.  "  He's  crazy,"  murmured 
Barque  in  his  ecstasy. 

"  I  leave  you,"  said  the  old  man,  yielding  in 
annoyance. 

He  got  up  to  go  and  look  for  his  treasure  again, 
entered  the  house  that  supported  our  backs,  and  left 


HABITS  87 

the  door  open,  where  beside  the  huge  fireplace  in  the 
room  we  saw  a  little  girl,  so  seriously  playing  with  a  doll 
that  Blaire  fell  considering,  and  said,  "  She's  right." 

The  games  of  children  are  a  momentous  preoccupation. 
Only  the  grown-ups  play. 

After  we  have  watched  the  animals  and  the  strollers 
go  by,  we  watch  the  time  go  by,  we  watch  everything. 

We  are  seeing  the  life  of  things,  we  are  present  with 
Nature,  blended  with  climates,  mingled  even  with  the 
sky,  coloured  by  the  seasons.  We  have  attached  our- 
selves to  this  corner  of  the  land  where  chance  has  held 
us  back  from  our  endless  wanderings  in  longer  and 
deeper  peace  than  elsewhere  ;  and  this  closer  intercourse 
makes  us  sensible  of  all  its  traits  and  habits.  September 
— the  morrow  of  August  and  eve  of  October,  most 
affecting  of  months — is  already  sprinkling  the  fine  days 
with  subtle  warnings.  Already  one  knows  the  meaning 
of  the  dead  leaves  that  flit  about  the  flat  stones  like  a 
flock  of  sparrows. 

In  truth  we  have  got  used  to  each  other's  company, 
we  and  this  place.  So  often  transplanted,  we  are  taking 
root  here,  and  we  np  longer  actually  think  of  going  away, 
even  when  we  talk  about  it. 

"  The  nth  Division  jolly  well  stayed  a  month  and  a 
half  resting,"  says  Blaire. 

"  And  the  375th,  too,  nine  weeks  1  "  replies  Barque, 
in  a  tone  of  challenge. 

"  I  think  we  shall  stay  here  at  least  as  long — at  least, 
I  say." 

"  We  could  finish  the  war  here  all  right." 

Barque  is  affected  by  the  words,  nor  very  far  from 
believing  them.  "After  all,  it  will  finish  some  day,  what  1 " 

"  After  all !  "  repeat  the  others. 

"  To  be  sure,  one  never  knows,"  says  Paradis.  He 
says  this  weakly,  without  deep  conviction.  It  is,  how- 
ever, a  saying  which  leaves  no  room  for  reply.  We  say 
it  over  again,  softly,  lulling  ourselves  with  it  as  with 
an  old  song. 


88  UNDER  FIRE 

Farfadet  rejoined  us  a  moment  ago.  He  took  his 
place  near  us,  but  a  little  withdrawn  all  the  same,  and 
sits  on  an  overturned  tub,  his  chin  on  his  fists. 

This  man  is  more  solidly  happy  than  we  are.  We 
know  it  well,  and  he  knows  it  well.  Lifting  his  head, 
he  has  looked  in  turn,  with  the  same  distant  gaze,  at 
the  back  of  the  old  man  who  went  to  seek  his  treasure, 
and  at  the  group  that  talks  of  going  away  no  more. 
There  shines  over  our  sensitive  and  sentimental  comrade 
a  sort  of  personal  glamour,  which  makes  of  him  a  being 
apart,  which  gilds  him  and  isolates  him  from  us,  in  spite 
of  himself,  as  though  an  officer's  tabs  had  fallen  on  him 
from  the  sky. 

His  idyll  with  Eudoxie  has  continued  here.  We 
have  had  the  proofs;  and  once,  indeed,  he  spoke  of  it. 
She  is  not  very  far  away,  and  they  are  very  near  to  each 
other.  Did  I  not  see  her  the  other  evening,  passing 
along  the  wall  of  the  parsonage,  her  hair  but  half 
quenched  by  a  mantilla,  as  she  went  obviously  to  a 
rendezvous  ?  Did  I  not  see  that  she  began  to  hurry  and 
to  lean  forward,  already  smiling?  Although  there  is 
no  more  between  them  yet  than  promises  and  assur- 
ances, she  is  his,  and  he  is  the  man  who  will  hold  her  in 
his  arms. 

Then,  too,  he  is  going  to  leave  us,  called  to  the  rear, 
to  Brigade  H.Q.,  where  they  want  a  weakling  who  can 
work  a  typewriter.  It  is  official ;  it  is  in  writing ;  he  is 
saved.  That  gloomy  future  at  which  we  others  dare 
not  look  is  definite  and  bright  for  him. 

He  looks  at  an  open  window  and  the  dark  gap  behind 
it  of  some  room  or  other  over  there,  a  shadow}''  room 
that  bemuses  him.  His  life  is  twofold  in  hope ;  he  is 
happy,  for  the  imminent  happiness  that  does  not  yet 
exist  is  the  only  real  happiness  down  here. 

So  a  scanty  spirit  of  envy  grows  around  him.  "  One 
never  knows,"  murmurs  Paradis  again,  but  with  no 
more  confidence  than  when  before,  in  the  straitened 
scene  of  our  life  to-day,  he  uttered  those  immeasurable 
words. 


VII 

ENTRAINING 

THE  next  day,  Barque  began  to  address  us,  and  said  : 
"  I'll  just  explain  to  you  what  it  is.  There  are  some 

A  ferocious  whistle  cut  his  explanation  off  short,  on 
the  syllable.  We  were  in  a  railway  station,  on  a  plat- 
form. A  night  alarm  had  torn  us  from  our  sleep  in  the 
village  and  we  had  marched  here.  The  rest  was  over; 
our  sector  was  being  changed;'  they  were  throwing  us 
somewhere  else.  We  had  disappeared  from  Gauchin 
under  cover  of  darkness  without  seeing  either  the  place 
or  the  people,  without  bidding  them  good-bye  even  in  a 
look,  without  bringing  away  a  last  impression. 

A  locorr  .^e  was  shunting,  near  enough  to  elbow 
us,  and  screaming  full-lunged.  I  saw  Barque's  mouth, 
stoppered  by  the  clamour  of  our  huge  neighbour,  pro- 
nounce an  oath,  and  I  saw  the  other  faces  grimacing 
in  deafened  impotence,  faces  helmeted  and  chin-strapped, 
for  we  were  sentries  in  the  station. 

"  After  you  !  "  yelled  Barque  furiously,  addressing 
the  white-plumed  whistle.  But  the  terrible  mechanism 
continued  more  imperiously  than  ever  to  drive  his 
words  back  in  his  throat.  When  it  ceased,  and  only 
its  echo  rang  in  our  ears,  the  thread  of  the  discourse 
was  broken  for  ever,  and  Barque  contented  himself 
with  the  brief  conclusion,  "  Oui." 

Then  we  looked  around  us.  We  were  lost  in  a  sort 
of  town.  Interminable  strings  of  trucks,  trains  of 
forty  to  sixty  carriages,  were  taking  shape  like  rows  of 
dark-fronted  houses,  low  built,  all  alike,  and  divided 

89 


90  UNDER  FIRE 

by  alleys.  Before  us,  alongside  the  collection  of  moving 
houses,  was  the  main  line,  the  limitless  street  where  the 
white  rails  disappeared  at  both  ends,  swallowed  up  in 
distance.  Sections  of  trains  and  complete  trains  were 
staggering  in  great  horizontal  columns,  leaving  their 
places,  then  taking  them  again.  On  every  side  one  heard 
the  regular  hammering  on  the  armoured  ground,  piercing 
whistles,  the  ringing  of  warning  bells,  the  solid  metallic 
crash  of  the  colossal  cubes  telescoping  their  steel  stumps, 
with  the  counter-blows  of  chains  and  the  rattle  of  the 
long  carcases'  vertebrae.  On  the  ground  floor  of  the 
building  that  arises  in  the  middle  of  the  station  like  a 
town  hall,  the  hurried  bell  of  telegraph  and  telephone 
was  at  work,  punctuated  by  vocal  noises.  All  about  on 
the  dusty  ground  were  the  goods  sheds,  the  low  stores 
through  whose  doors  one  could  dimly  see  the  stacked 
interiors  ;  the  pointsmen's  cabins,  the  bristling  switches, 
the  hydrants,  the  latticed  iron  posts  whose  wires  ruled 
the  sky  like  music-paper;  here  and  there  the  signals, 
and  rising  naked  over  this  flat  and  gloomy  city,  two 
steam  cranes,  like  steeples. 

Farther  away,  on  waste  ground  and  vacant  sites  in 
the  environs  of  the  labyrinth  of  platforms  and  buildings, 
military  carts  and  lorries  were  standing  idle,  and 
rows  of  horses,  drawn  out  farther  than  one  could 
see. 

"  Talk  about  the  job  this  is  going  to  be  !  " — "  A  whole 
army  corps  beginning  to  entrain  this  evening  !  " — "  Tiens, 
they're  coming  now  !  " 

A  cloud  which  overspread  a  noisy  vibration  of  wheels 
and  the  rumble  of  horses'  hoofs  was  coming  near  and 
getting  bigger  in  the  approach  to  the  station  formed  by 
converging  buildings. 

"  There  are  already  some  guns  on  board."  On  some 
flat  trucks  down  there,  between  two  long  pyramidal 
dumps  of  chests,  we  saw  indeed  the  outline  of  wheels, 
and  some  slender  muzzles.  Ammunition  wagons,  guns 
and  wheels  were  streaked  and  blotched  with  yellow, 
brown,  and  green. 


ENTRAINING  91 

"  They're  camouftes.1  Down  there,  there  are  even 
horses  painted.  Look !  spot  that  one,  there,  with  the 
big  feet  as  if  he  had  trousers  on.  Well,  he  was  white, 
and  they've  slapped  some  paint  on  to  change  his  colour." 

The  horse  in  question  was  standing  apart  from  the 
others,  which  seemed  to  mistrust  it,  and  displayed  a 
greyish  yellow  tone,  obviously  with  intent  to  deceive. 
"  Poor  devil !  "  said  Tulacque. 

"  You  see."  said  Paradis,  "  we  not  only  take  'em  to  get 
killed,  but  mess  them  about  first  !  " 

"  It's  for  their  good,  any  way  !  " 

"  Eh  out,  and  us  too,  it's  for  our  good  !  " 

Towards  evening  soldiers  arrived.  From  all  sides 
they  flowed  towards  the  station.  Deep- voiced  non- 
coms,  ran  in  front  of  the  files.  They  were  stemming 
the  tide  of  men  and  massing  them  along  the  barriers  or 
in  railed  squares — pretty  well  everywhere.  The  men 
piled  their  arms,  dropped  their  knapsacks,  and  not  being 
free  to  go  out,  waited,  buried  side  by  side  in  shadow. 

The  arrivals  followed  each  other  in  volume  that  grew 
as  the  twilight  deepened.  Along  with  the  troops,  the 
motors  flowed  up,  and  soon  there  was  an  unbroken  roar. 
Limousines  glided  through  an  enormous  sea  of  lorries, 
little,  middling,  and  big.  All  these  cleared  aside,  wedged 
themselves  in,  subsided  in  their  appointed  places.  A 
vast  hum  of  voices  and  mingled  noises  arose  from  the 
ocean  of  men  and  vehicles  that  beat  upon  the  approaches 
to  the  station  and  began  in  places  to  filter  through. 

"  That's  nothing  yet,"  said  Cocon,  The  Man  of  Figures. 
"  At  Army  Corps  Headquarters  alone  there  are  thirty 
officers'  motors;  and  you  don't  know,"  he  added, 
"  how  many  trains  of  fifty  trucks  it  takes  to  entrain 
all  the  Corps — men  and  all  the  box  of  tricks — except, 
of  course,  the  lorries,  that'll  join  the  new  sector  on 
their  feet  ?  Don't  guess,  flat-face.  It  takes  ninety." 

1  The  word  is  likely  to  become  of  international  usage.  It 
stands  for  the  use  of  paint  in  blotches  of  different  colours,  and 
of  branches  and  other  things  to  disguise  almost  any  object  that 
may  be  visible  to  hostile  aircraft. — Tr. 


92  UNDER  FIRE 

"  Great  Scott !     And  there  are  thirty-three  Corps  ?  " 

"  There  are  thirty-nine,  lousy  one  !  " 

The  turmoil  increases ;  the  station  becomes  still  more 
populous.  As  far  as  the  eye  can  make  out  a  shape  or 
the  ghost  of  a  shape,  there  is  a  hurly-burly  of  movement 
as  lively  as  a  panic.  All  the  hierarchy  of  the  non-coms, 
expand  themselves  and  go  into  action,  pass  and  re  pass 
like  meteors,  wave  their  bright-striped  arms,  and  multi- 
ply the  commands  and  counter-commands  that  are 
carried  by  the  worming  orderlies  and  cyclists,  the  former 
tardy,  the  latter  manoeuvring  in  quick  dashes,  like  fish 
in  water. 

Here  now  is  evening,  definitely.  The  blots  made  by 
the  uniforms  of  the  poilus  grouped  about  the  hillocks 
of  rifles  become  indistinct,  and  blend  with  the  ground ; 
and  then  their  mass  is  betrayed  only  by  the  glow  of 
pipes  and  cigarettes.  In  some  places  on  the  edge  of  the 
clusters,  the  little  bright  points  festoon  the  gloom  like 
illuminated  streamers  in  a  merry-making  street, 

Over  this  confused  and  heaving  expanse  an  amalgam 
of  voices  rises  like  the  sea  breaking  on  the  shore ; 
and  above  this  unending  murmur,  renewed  commands, 
shouts,  the  din  of  a  shot  load  or  of  one  transferred,  the 
crash  of  steam-hammers  redoubling  their  dull  endeavours, 
and  the  roaring  of  boilers. 

In  the  immense  obscurity,  surcharged  with  men  and 
with  all  things,  lights  begin  everywhere  to  appear.  These 
are  the  flash-lamps  of  officers  and  detachment  leaders, 
and  the  cyclists'  acetylene  lamps,  whose  intensely  white 
points  zigzag  hither  and  thither  and  reveal  an  outer 
zone  of  pallid  resurrection. 

An  acetylene  searchlight  blazes  blindingly  out  and 
depicts  a  dome  of  daylight.  Other  beams  pierce  and 
rend  the  universal  grey. 

Then  does  the  station  assume  a  fantastic  air.  Mysteri- 
ous shapes  spring  up  and  adhere  to  the  sky's  dark  blue. 
Mountains  come  into  view,  rough-modelled,  and  vast 
as  the  ruins  of  a  town.  One  can  see  the  beginning  of 
unending  rows  of  objects,  finally  plunged  in  night. 


ENTRAINING  93 

One  guesses  what  the  great  bulks  may  be  whose  outer- 
most outlines  flash  forth  from  a  black  abyss  of  the 
unknown. 

On  our|  left,  detachments  of  cavalry  and ,'  infantry 
move  ever  forward  like  a  ponderous  flood.  We  hear 
the  diffused  obscurity  of  voices.  We  see  some  ranks 
delineated  by  a  flash  of  phosphorescent  light  or  a  ruddy 
glimmering,  and  we  listen  to  long-drawn  trails  of  noise. 

Up  the  gangways  of  the  vans  whose  grey  trunks  and 
black  mouths  one  sees  by  the  dancing  and  smoking 
flame  of  torches,  artillerymen  are  leading  horses.  There 
are  appeals  and  shouts,  a  frantic  trampling  of  conflict, 
and  the  angry  kicking  of  some  restive  animal — insulted 
by  its  guide — against  the  panels  of  the  van  where  he  is 
cloistered. 

Not  far  away,  they  are  putting  wagons  on  to  railway 
trucks.  Swarming  humanity  surrounds  a  hill  of  trusses 
of  fodder.  A  scattered  multitude  furiously  attacks 
great  strata  of  bales. 

"  That's  three  hours  we've  been  on  our  pins,"  sighs 
Paradis. 

"  And  those,  there,  what  are  they  ?  "  In  some  snatches 
of  light  we  see  a  group  of  goblins,  surrounded  by  glow- 
worms and  carrying  strange  instruments,  come  out  and 
then  disappear. 

;<  That's  the  searchlight  section,"  says  Cocon. 

"  You've  got  your  considering  cap  on,  camarade ; 
what's  it  about  ?  " 

"  There  are  four  Divisions,  at  present,  in  an  Army 
Corps,"  replies  Cocon ;  "  the  number  changes,  sometimes 
it  is  three,  sometimes  five.  Just  now,  it's  four.  And 
each  of  our  Divisions,"  continues  the  mathematical 
one,  whom  our  squad  glories  in  owning,  "  includes  three 
R.I. — regiments  of  infantry;  two  B.C.P. — battalions 
of  chasseurs  a  pied  ;  one  R.T.I. — regiment  of  territorial 
infantry — without  counting  the  special  regiments,  Artil- 
lery, Engineers,  Transport,  etc.,  and  not  counting  either 
Headquarters  of  the  D.I.  and  the  departments  not 
brigaded  but  attached  directly  te  the  D.I.  A  regiment 


94  UNDER  FIRE 

of  the  line  of  three  battalions  occupies  four  trains,  one 
for  H.Q.,  the  machine-gun  company,  and  the  C.H.R. 
(compagnie  hors  rang1),  and  one  to  each  battalion. 
All  the  troops  won't  entrain  here.  They'll  entrain  in 
echelons  along  the  line  according  to  the  position  of  the 
quarters  and  the  period  of  reliefs." 

"  I'm  tired,"  says  Tulacque.  "  We  don't  get  enough 
solids  to  eat,  mark  you.  We  stand  up  because  it's  the 
fashion,  but  we've  no  longer  either  force  or  freshness." 

"  I've  been  getting  information,"  Cocon  goes  on ; 
"  the  troops — the  real  troops — will  only  entrain  as  from 
midnight.  They  are  still  mustered  here  and  there  in 
the  villages  ten  kilometres  round  about.  All  the  depart- 
ments of  the  Army  Corps  will  first  set  off,  and  the 
E.N.E. — elements  non  endivisionnes,"  Cocon  obligingly 
explains,  "  that  is,  attached  directly  to  the  A.C.  Among 
the  E.N.E.  you  won't  see  the  Balloon  Department 
nor  the  Squadron — they're  too  big  goods,  and  they 
navigate  on  their  own,  with  their  staff  and  officers 
and  hospitals.  The  chasseurs  regiment  is  another 
of  these  E.N.E." 

"  There's  no  regiment  of  chasseurs,"  says  Barque, 
thoughtlessly,  "  it's  battalions.  One  says  '  such  and 
such  a  battalion  of  chasseurs.'  " 

We  can  see  Cocon  shrugging  his  shoulders  in  the 
shadows,  and  his  glasses  cast  a  scornful  gleam.  "  Think 
so,  duck-neb  ?  Then  I'll  tell  you,  since  you're  so  clever, 
there  are  two — foot  chasseurs  and  horse  chasseurs." 

"  Gad !     I  forgot  the  horsemen,"  says  Barque. 

"  Only  them  !  "  Cocon  said.  "  In  the  E.N.E.  of  the 
Army  Corps,  there's  the  Corps  Artillery,  that  is  to  say, 
the  central  artillery  that's  additional  to  that  of  the 
divisions.  It  includes  the  H.A. — heavy  artillery;  the 
T.A. — trench  artillery;  the  A.D. — artillery  depot,  the 
armoured  cars,  the  anti-aircraft  batteries — do  I  know,  or 
don't  I  ?  There's  the  Engineers ;  the  Military  Police — 
to  wit,  the  service  of  cops  on  foot  and  slops  on  horse- 
back ;  the  Medical  Department ;  the  Veterinary  ditto ;  a 
1  Non-combatant. — Tr. 


ENTRAINING  95 

squadron  of  the  Draught  Corps ;  a  Territorial  regiment 
for  the  guards  and  fatigues  at  H.Q. — Headquarters; 
the  Service  de  I'lntendance,1  and  the  supply  column. 
There's  also  the  drove  of  cattle,  the  Remount  Depot, 
the  Motor  Department — talk  about  the  swarm  of  soft 
jobs  I  could  tell  you  about  in  an  hour  if  I  wanted 
to ! — the  Paymaster  that  controls  the  pay-offices  and 
the  Post,  the  Council  of  War,  the  Telegraphists,  and  all 
the  electrical  lot.  All  those  have  chiefs,  commandants, 
sections  and  sub-sections,  and  they're  rotten  with  clerks 
and  orderlies  of  sorts,  and  all  the  bally  box  of  tricks. 
You  can  see  from  here  the  sort  of  job  the  C.O.  of  a 
Corps's  got  !  " 

At  this  moment  we  were  surrounded  by  a  party  of 
soldiers  carrying  boxes  in  addition  to  their  equipment, 
and  parcels  tied  up  in  paper  that  they  bore  reluctantly 
and  anon  placed  on  the  ground,  puffing. 

"  Those  are  the  Staff  secretaries.  They  are  a  part 
of  the  H.Q. — Headquarters — that  is  to  say,  a  sort  of 
General's  suite.  When  they're  flitting,  they  lug  about 
their  chests  of  records,  their  tables,  their  registers,  and 
all  the  dirty  oddments  they  need  for  their  writing. 
Tiens  /  see  that,  there ;  it's  a  typewriter  those  two  are 
carrying,  the  old  papa  and  the  little  sausage,  with  a 
rifle  threaded  through  the  parcel.  They're  in  three 
offices,  and  there's  also  the  dispatch-riders'  section,  the 
Chancellerie,  the  A.C.T.S. — Army  Corps  Topographical 
Section — that  distributes  maps  to  the  Divisions,  and 
makes  maps  and  plans  from  the  aviators  and  the  ob- 
servers and  the  prisoners.  It's  the  officers  of  all  the 
departments  who,  under  the  orders  of  two  colonels, 
form  the  Staff  of  the  Army  Corps.  But  the  H.Q., 
properly  so  called,  which  also  includes  orderlies,  cooks, 
storekeepers,  workpeople,  electricians,  police,  and  the 
horsemen  of  the  Escort,  is  bossed  by  a  commandant." 

At  this  moment  we  receive  collectively  a  tremendous 
bump.  "  Hey,  look  out  !  Out  of  the  way  !  "  cries  a 
man,  by  way  of  apology,  who  is  being  assisted  by  several 
1  Akin  to  the  British  A.S.G.— Tr. 


96  UNDER  FIRE 

others  to  push  a  cart  towards  the  wagons.  The  work 
is  hard,  for  the  ground  slopes  up,  and  so  soon  as  they 
cease  to  buttress  themselves  against  the  cart  and  adhere 
to  the  wheels,  it  slips  back.  The  sullen  men  crush 
themselves  against  it  in  the  depth  of  the  gloom,  grinding 
their  teeth  and  growling,  as  though  they  fell  upon  some 
monster. 

Barque,  all  the  while  rubbing  his  back,  questions  one 
of  the  frantic  gang  :  "  Think  you're  going  to  do  it,  old 
duckfoot?  " 

"  Nom  de  Dicu !  "  roars  he,  engrossed  in  his  job, 
"  mind  these  setts  !  You're  going  to  wreck  the  show  !  " 
With  a  sudden  movement  he  jostles  Barque  again,  and 
this  time  turns  round  on  him  :  "  What  are  you  doing 
there,  dung-guts,  numskull?  " 

"  Non,  it  can't  be  that  you're  drunk?"  Barque 
retorts.  "  '  What  am  I  doing  here  ?  '  It's  good,  that  ! 
Tell  me,  you  lousy  gang,  wouldn't  you  like  to  do  it 
too  !  " 

"  Out  of  the  way  !  "  cries  a  new  voice,  which  precedes 
some  men  doubled  up  under  burdens  incongruous,  but 
apparently  overwhelming. 

One  can  no  longer  remain  anywhere.  Everywhere 
we  are  in  the  way.  We  go  forward,  we  scatter,  we  retire 
in  the  turmoil. 

"  In  addition,  I  tell  you,"  continues  Cocon,  tranquil 
as  a  scientist,  "  there  are  the  Divisions,  each  organised 
pretty  much  like  an  Army  Corps " 

"  Oui,  we  know  it ;   miss  the  deal !  " 

"  He  makes  a  fine  to-do  about  it  all,  that  mountebank 
in  the  horse-box  on  casters.  What  a  mother-in-law  he'd 
make  !  " 

"  I'll  bet  that's  the  Major's  wrong-headed  horse,  the 
one  that  the  vet  said  was  a  calf  in  process  of  becoming 
a  cow." 

"  It's  well  organised,  all  the  same,  all  that,  no  doubt 
about  it,"  says  Lamuse  admiringly,  forced  back  by  a 
wave  of  artillerymen  carrying  boxes. 

"  That's  true,"  Marthereau  admits;    "  to  get  all  this 


ENTRAINING  97 

lot  on  the  way,  you've  not  got  to  be  a  lot  of  turnip-heads 
nor  a  lot  of  custards — Bon  Dieu,  look  where  you're 
putting  your  damned  boots,  you  black-livered  beast !  " 

"Talk  about  a  flitting!  When  I  went  to  live  at 
Marcoussis  with  my  family,  there  was  less  fuss  than 
this.  But  then  I'm  not  built  that  way  myself." 

We  are  silent ;  and  then  we  hear  Cocon  saying,  "  For 
the  whole  French  Army  that  holds  the  lines  to  go  by 
— I'm  not  speaking  of  those  who  are  fixed  up  at  the  rear, 
where  there  are  twice  as  many  men  again,  and  services 
like  the  ambulance  that  cost  nine  million  francs  and 
can  clear  you  seven  thousand  cases  a  day — to  see  them 
go  by  in  trains  of  sixty  coaches  each,  following  each  other 
without  stopping,  at  intervals  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  it 
would  take  forty  days  and  forty  nights." 

"  Ah  !  "  they  say.  It  is  too  much  effort  for  their 
imagination ;  they  lose  interest  and  sicken  of  the  magni- 
tude of  these  figures.  They  yawn,  and  with  watering 
eyes  they  follow,  in  the  confusion  of  haste  and  shouts 
and  smoke,  of  roars  and  gleams  and  flashes,  the  terrible 
line  of  the  armoured  train  that  moves  in  the  distance, 
with  fire  in  the  sky  behind  it. 


VIII 

ON   LEAVE 

EUDORE  sat  down  awhile,  there  by  the  roadside  well, 
before  taking  the  path  over  the  fields  that  led  to  the 
trenches,  his  hands  crossed  over  one  knee,  his  pale  face 
uplifted.  He  had  no  moustache  under  his  nose — only 
a  little  flat  smear  over  each  corner  of  his  mouth.  He 
whistled,  and  then  yawned  in  the  face  of  the  morning 
till  the  tears  came. 

An  artilleryman  who  was  quartered  on  the  edge  of 
the  wood — over  there  where  a  line  of  horses  and  carts 
looked  like  a  gipsies'  bivouac — came  up,  with  the  well 
in  his  mind,  and  two  canvas  buckets  that  danced  at  the 
end  of  his  arms  in  time  with  his  feet.  In  front  of  the 
sleepy  unarmed  soldier  with  a  bulging  bag  he  stood  fast. 

"  On  leave  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Eudore ;  "  just  back." 

"  Good  for  you,"  said  the  gunner  as  he  made  off. 
"  You've  nothing  to  grumble  at — with  six  days'  leave 
in  your  water-bottle  !  " 

And  here,  see,  are  four  more  men  coming  down  the 
road,  their  gait  heavy  and  slow,  their  boots  turned 
into  enormous  caricatures  of  boots  by  reason  of  the  mud. 
As  one  man  they  stopped  on  espying  the  profile  of 
Eudore. 

"  There's  Eudore  !  Hello,  Eudore !  hello,  the  old 
sport !  You're  back  then  !  "  they  cried  together,  as  they 
hurried  up  and  offered  him  hands  as  big  and  ruddy  as 
ii  they  were  hidden  in  woollen  gloves. 

"  Morning,  boys,"  said  Eudore. 

"  Had  a  good  time  ?  What  have  you  got  to  tell  us, 
my  boy  ?  " 

98 


ON  LEAVE  99 

"  Yes,"  replied  Eudore,  "  not  so  bad." 

"  We've  been  on  wine  fatigue,  and  we've  finished. 
Let's  go  back  together,  pas  ?  " 

In  single  file  they  went  down  the  embankment  of  the 
road ;  arm  in  arm  they  crossed  the  field  of  grey  mud, 
where  their  feet  fell  with  the  sound  of  dough  being  mixed 
in  the  kneading-trough. 

"  Well,  you've  seen  your  wife,  your  little  Mariette — 
the  only  girl  for  you — that  you  could  never  open  your 
jaw  without  telling  us  a  tale  about  her,  eh  ?  " 

Eudore's  wan  face  winced. 

"  My  wife  ?  Yes,  I  saw  her,  sure  enough,  but  only  for 
a  little  while — there  was  no  way  of  doing  any  better — 
but  no  luck,  I  admit,  and  that's  all  about  it." 

"How's  that?  " 

"  How  ?  You  know  that  we  live  at  Vilters-l'Abbaye, 
a  hamfet  of  four  houses  neither  more  nor  less,  astraddle 
over  the  road.  One  of  those  houses  is  our  cafe,  and  she 
runs  it,  or  rather  she  is  running  it  again  since  they  gave 
up  shelling  the  village. 

"  Now  then,  with  my  leave  coming  along,  she  asked 
for  a  permit  to  Mont-St-Eloi,  where  my  old  folks  are, 
and  my  permit  was  for  Mont-St-Eloi  too.  See  the  move  ? 

"  Being  a  little  woman  with  a  head-piece,  you  know, 
she  had  applied  for  her  permit  long  before  the  date  when 
my  leave  was  expected.  All  the  same,  my  leave  came 
before  her  permit.  Spite  o'  that  I  set  off — for  one 
doesn't  let  his  turn  in  the  company  go  by,  eh?  So  I 
stayed  with  the  old  people,  and  waited.  I  like  'em 
well  enough,  but  I  got  down  in  the  mouth  all  the  same. 
As  for  them,  it  was  enough  that  they  could  see  me,  and 
it  worried  them  that  I  was  bored  by  their  company — 
how  else  could  it  be  ?  At  the  end  of  the  sixth  day — 
at  the  finish  of  my  leave,  and  the  very  evening  before 
returning — a  young  man  on  a  bicycle,  son  of  the  Florence 
family,  brings  me  a  letter  from  Mariette  to  say  that  her 
permit  had  not  yet  come 

"  Ah,  rotten  luck,"  cried  the  audience. 

"  And  that  "  continued  Eudore,  "  there  was  only  one 


ioo  UNDER  FIRE 

thing  to  do — I  was  to  get  leave  from  the  mayor  of  Mont- 
St-Eloi,  who  would  get  it  from  the  military,  and  go 
myself  at  full  speed  to  see  her  at  Villers." 

"  You  should  have  done  that  the  first  day,  not  the 
sixth  !  " 

"So  it  seems,  but  I  was  afraid  we  should  cross  and 
me  miss  her — y'see,  as  soon  as  I  landed,  I  was  expecting 
her  all  the  time,  and  every  minute  I  fancied  I  could  see 
her  at  the  open  door.     So  I  did  as  she  told  me." 
"  After  all,  you  saw  her?  " 
"  Just  one  day — or  rather,  just  one  night." 
"  Quite  sufficient  !  "  merrily  said  Lamuse,  and  Eudore 
the  pale  and  serious  shook  his  head  under  the  shower 
of  pointed  and  perilous  jests  that  followed. 

"  Shut  your  great  mouths  for  five  minutes,  chaps." 
"  Get  on  with  it,  petit." 
"  There  isn't  a  great  lot  of  it,"  said  Euclore. 
f<  Well,  then,  you  were  saying  you  had  got  a  hump 
with  your  old  people  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes.  They  had  tried  their  best  to  make  up 
for  Mariette — with  lovely  rashers  of  our  own  ham,  and 
plum  brandy,  and  patching  up  my  linen,  and  all  sorts 
of  little  spoiled-kid  tricks — and  I  noticed  they  were 
still  slanging  each  other  in  the  old  familiar  way  !  But 
you  talk  about  a  difference  !  I  always  had  my  eye  on 
the  door  to  see  if  some  time  or  other  it  wouldn't  get  a 
move  on  and  turn  into  a  woman.  So  I  went  and  saw  the 
mayor,  and  set  off,  yesterday,  towards  two  in  the  after- 
noon— towards  fourteen  o'clock  I  might  well  say, 
seeing  that  I  had  been  counting  the  hours  since  the 
day  before  !  I  had  just  one  day  of  my  leave  left 
then. 

"As  we  drew  near  in  the  dusk,  through  the  carriage 
window  of  the  little  railway  that  still  keeps  going  down 
there  on  some  fag-ends  of  line,  I  recognised  half  the 
country,  and  the  other  half  I  didn't.  Here  and  there 
I  got  the  sense  of  it,  all  at  once,  and  it  came  back  all 
fresh  to  me,  and  melted  away  again,  just  as  if  it  was 
talking  to  me.  Then  it  shut  up.  In  the  end  we  got 


ON  LEAVE'    '=-:  '"' 


out,  and  I  found — the  limit,  thdt 
pad  the  hoof  to  the  last  station. 

"  Never,  old  man,  have  I  been  in  such  weather. 
It  had  rained  for  six  days.  For  six  days  the  sky  washed 
the  earth  and  then  washed  it  again.  'The  earth  was 
softening  and  shifting,  and  filling  up  the  holes  and 
making  new  ones." 

"  Same  here — it  only  stopped  raining  this  morning." 

"  It  was  just  my  luck.  And  everywhere  there  were 
swollen  new  streams,  washing  away  the  borders  of  the 
fields  as  though  they  were  lines  on  paper.  There  were 
hills  that  ran  with  water  from  top  to  bottom.  Gusts 
of  wind  sent  the  rain  in  great  clouds  flying  and  whirling 
about,  and  lashing  our  hands  and  faces  and  necks. 

"  So  you  bet,  when  I  had  tramped  to  the  station,  if 
some  one  had  pulled  a  really  ugly  face  at  me,  it  would 
have  been  enough  to  make  me  turn  back. 

"  But  when  we  did  get  to  the  place,  there  were  several 
of  us — some  more  men  on  leave — they  weren't  bound  for 
Villers,  but  they  had  to  go  through  it  to  get  somewhere 
else.  So  it  happened  that  we  got  there  in  a  lump — five 
old  cronies  that  didn't  know  each  other. 

"  I  could  make  out  nothing  of  anything.  They've 
been  worse  shelled  over  there  than  here,  and  then  there 
was  the  water  everywhere,  and  it  was  getting  dark. 

"  I  told  you  there  are  only  four  houses  in  the  little 
place,  only  they're  a  good  bit  off  from  each  other.  You 
come  to  the  lower  end  of  a  slope.  I  didn't  know  too 
well  where  I  was,  no  more  than  my  pals  did,  though  they 
belonged  to  the  district  and  had  some  notion  of  the  lay 
of  it — and  all  the  less  because  of  the  rain  falling  in 
bucketsful. 

"  It  got  so  bad  that  we  couldn't  keep  from  hurrying 
and  began  to  run.  We  passed  by  the  farm  of  the  Alleux 
— that's  the  first  of  the  houses — and  it  looked  like  a  sort 
of  stone  ghost.  Bits  of  walls  like  splintered  pillars 
standing  up  out  of  the  water;  the  house  was  ship- 
wrecked. The  other  farm,  a  little  further,  was  as  good 
as  drowned  dead. 


102  UNDER  FIRE 


ft  is-the  'third.  It's  on  the  edge  of  the  road 
that  runs  along  the  top  of  the  slope.  We  climbed  up, 
facing  the  rain  that  beat  on  us  in  the  dusk  and  began 
to  blind  us  —  the  cold  and  wet  fairly  smacked  us  in  the 
eye,  flop  !  —  and  broke  our  ranks  like  machine-guns. 

"  The  house  !  I  ran  like  a  greyhound  —  like  an 
African  attacking.  Mariette  !  I  could  see  her  with  her 
arms  raised  high  in  the  doorway  behind  that  fine  curtain 
of  night  and  rain  —  of  rain  so  fierce  that  it  drove  her 
back  and  kept  her  shrinking  between  the  doorposts 
like  a  statue  of  the  Virgin  in  its  niche.  I  just  threw 
myself  forward,  but  remembered  to  give  my  pals  the 
sign  to  follow  me.  The  house  swallowed  the  lot  of  us. 
Mariette  laughed  a  little  to  see  me,  with  a  tear  in  her 
eye.  «She  waited  till  we  were  alone  together  and  then 
laughed  and  cried  all  at  once.  I  told  the  boys  to  make 
themselves  at  home  and  sit  down,  some  on  the  chairs 
and  the  rest  on  the  table. 

"  '  Where  are  they  going,  ces  messieurs  ?  '  asked 
Mariette. 

"  '  We  are  going  to  Vauvelles/ 

'  Jesus  I  '  she  said,  '  you'll  never  get  there.  You 
can't  do  those  two  miles  and  more  in  the  night,  with 
the  roads  washed  away,  and  swamps  everywhere.  You 
mustn't  even  try  to.' 

"  '  Well,  we'll  go  on  to-morrow,  then;  only  we  must 
find  somewhere  to  pass  the  night/ 

"  '  I'll  go  with  you/  I  said,  '  as  far  as  the  Pendu  farm—  - 
they're  not  short  gf  room  in  that  shop.     You'll  snore 
in  there  all  right,  and  you  can  start  at  daybreak/ 
'  Right  !     Let's  get  a  move  on  so  far/ 

"  We  went  out  again.  What  a  downpour  !  We  were 
wet  past  bearing.  The  water  poured  into  our  socks 
through  the  boot-soles  and  by  the  trouser  bottoms,  and 
they  too  were  soaked  through  and  through  up  to  the 
knees.  Before  we  got  to  this  Pendu,  we  meet  a  shadow 
in  a  big  black  cloak,  with  a  lantern  .  The  lantern  is 
raised,  and  we  see  a  gold  stripe  on  the  sleeve,  and  then 
an  angry  face. 


ON  LEAVE  103 

"'What  the  hell  are  you  doing  there  ?'  says  the 
shadow,  drawing  back  a  little  and  putting  one  fist  on  his 
hip,  while  the  rain  rattled  like  hail  on  his  hood. 

"  '  They're  men  on  leave  for  Vauvelles — they  can't 
set  off  again  to-night — they  would  like  to  sleep  in  the 
Pendu  farm.' 

"'What  do  you  say?  Sleep  here? — This  is  the 
police  station — I  am  the  officer  on  guard  and  there  are 
Boche  prisoners  in  the  buildings.'  And  I'll  tell  you 
what  he  said  as  well — '  I  must  see  you  hop  it  from  here 
in  less  than  two  seconds.  Bonsoir.' 

11  So  we  right  about  face  and  started  back  again — 
stumbling  as  if  we  were  boozed,  slipping,  puffing,  splash- 
ing and  bespattering  ourselves.  One  of  the  boys  cried 
to  me  through  the  wind  and  rain,  '  We'll  go  back  with 
you  as  far  as  your  home,  all  the  same.  If  we  haven't 
a  house  we've  time  enough.' 

"  '  Where  will  you  sleep?  ' 

'  Oh,  we'll  find  somewhere,  don't  worry,  for  the 
little  time  we  have  to  kill  here.' 

"  '  Yes,  we'll  find  somewhere,  all  right,'  I  said.  '  Come 
in  again  for  a  minute  meanwhile — I  won't  take  no  ' — 
and  Mariette  sees  us  enter  once  more  in  single  file,  all 
five  of  us  soaked  like  bread  in  soup. 

"  So  there  we  all  were,  with  only  one  little  room  to 
go  round  in  and  go  round  again — the  only  room  in  the 
house,  seeing  that  it  isn't  a  palace. 

"  '  Tell  me,  madame,'  says  one  of  our  friends, 
'  isn't  there  a  cellar  here  ?  ' 

"'There's  water  in  it,'  says  Mariette ;.'  you  can't 
see  the  bottom  step  and  it's  only  got  two.' 

"  '  Damn,'  says  the  man,  '  for  I  see  there's  no  loft, 
either.' 

"  After  a  minute  or  two  he  gets  up  :  '  Good-night, 
old  pal,'  he  says  to  me,  and  they  get  their  hats  on. 

"  '  What,  are  you  going  off  in  weather  like  this, 
boys?' 

"  '  Do  you  think/  says  the  old  sport,  '  that  we're 
going  to  spoil  your  stay  with  your  wife  ?  ' 


104  UNDER  FIRE 

'  But,  my  good  man- ' 

"  '  But  me  no  buts.  It's  nine  o'clock,  and  you've 
got  to  take  your  hook  before  day.  So  good-night. 
Coming,  you  others  ?  ' 

"  '  Rather,'  say  the  boys.     '  Good-night  all.' 

"  There  they  are  at  the  door  and  opening  it.  Mariette 
and  me,  we  look  at  each  other — but  we  don't  move. 
Once  more  we  look  at  each  other,  and  then  we  sprang 
at  them.  I  grabbed  the  skirt  of  a  coat  and  she  a  belt — 
all  wet  enough  to  wring  out. 

"  '  Never  !     We  won't  let  you  go — it  can't  be  done.' 

«  '  But ' 

"  '  But  me  no  buts,'  I  reply,  while  she  locks  the  door." 

"  Then  what?  "  asked  Lamuse. 

"Then?  Nothing  at  all,"  replied  Eudore.  "We 
just  stayed  like  that,  very  discreetly — all  the  night — 
sitting,  propped  up  in  the  corners,  yawning — like  the 
watchers  over  a  dead  man.  We  made  a  bit  of  talk  at 
first.  From,  time  to  time  some  one  said,  '  Is  it  still 
raining  ?  '  and  went  and  had  a  look,  and  said,  '  It's 
still  raining  ' — we  could  hear  it,  by  the  way.  A  big  chap 
who  had  a  moustache  like  a  Bulgarian  fought  against 
sleeping  like  a  wild  man.  Sometimes  one  or  two  among 
the  crowd  slept,  but  there  was  always  one  to  yawn  and 
keep  an  eye  open  for  politeness,  who  stretched  himself 
or  half  got  up  so  that  he  could  settle  more  comfortably. 

"  Mariette  and  me,  we  never  slept.  We  looked  at 
each  other,  but  we  looked  at  the  others  as  well,  and  they 
looked  at  us,  and  there  you  are. 

"  Morning  came  and  cleaned  the  window.  I  got  up 
to  go  and  look  outside.  The  rain  was  hardly  less.  In 
the  room  I  could  see  dark  forms  that  began  to  stir  and 
breathe  hard.  Marietta's  eyes  were  red  with  looking 
at  me  all  night.  Between  her  and  me  a  soldier  was 
filling  his  pipe  and  shivering. 

"  Some  one'  beats  a  tattoo  on  the  window,  and  I  half 
open  it.  A  silhouette  with  a  streaming  hat  appears, 
as  though  carried  and  driven  there  by  the  terrible  force 
of  the  blast  that  came  with  it,  and  asks — 


ON  LEAVE  105 

"  '  Hey,  in  the  cafe  there  !  Is  there  any  coffee  to  be 
had?' 

"  '  Coming,  sir,  coming/  cried  Mariette. 

"  She  gets  up  from  her  chair,  a  little  benumbed. 
Without  a  word  she  looks  at  herself  in  our  bit  of  a  mirror, 
touches  her  hair  lightly,  and  says  quite  simply,  the 
good  lass — 

"  '  I  am  going  to  make  coffee  for  everybody.' 

"  When  that  was  drunk  off,  we  had  all  of  us  to  go. 
Besides,  customers  turned  up  every  minute. 

"  '  Hey,  la  p'tite  mere'  they  cried,  shoving  their  noses 
in  at  the  half -open  window,  '  let's  have  a  coffee — or  three 
— or  four  ' — '  and  two  more  again,'  says  another  voice. 

"  We  go  up  to  Mariette  to  say  good-bye.  They 
knew  they  had  played  gooseberry  that  night  most 
damnably,  but  I  could  see  plainly  that  they  didn't 
know  if  it  would  be  the  thing  to  say  something  about  it 
or  just  let  it  drop  altogether. 

"  Then  the  Bulgarian  made  up  his  mind  :  '  We've 
made  a  hell  of  a  mess  of  it  for  you,  eh,  ma  p'tite  dame  ? ' 

"  He  said  that  to  show  he'd  been  well  brought  up, 
the  old  sport. 

"  Mariette  thanks  him  and  offers  him  her  hand — 
'  That's  nothing  at  all,  sir.  I  hope  you'll  enjoy  your 
leave.' 

"  And  me,  I  held  her  tight  in  my  arms  and  kissed 
her  as  long  as  I  could — half  a  minute — discontented — 
my  God,  there  was  reason  to  be — but  glad  that  Mariette 
had  not  driven  the  boys  out  like  dogs,  and  I  felt  sure  she 
liked  me  too  for  not  doing  it. 

"  '  But  that  isn't  all,'  said  one  of  the  leave  men, 
lifting  the  skirt  of  his  cape  and  fumbling  in  his  coat 
pocket ;  '  that's  not  all.  What  do  we  owe  you  for  the 
coffees  ?  ' 

"  '  Nothing,  for  you  stayed  the  night  with  me ;  you 
are  my  guests.' 

"  '  Oh,  madame,  we  can't  have  that  !  ' 

"  And  how  they  set  to  to  make  protests  and  compli- 
ments in  front  of  each  other  !  Old  man,  you  can  say 


io6  UNDER  FIRE 

what  you   like — we  may  be    only  poor   devils,  but  it 
was  astonishing,  that  little  palaver  of  good  manners. 
'  Come  along  !     Let's  be  hopping  it,  eh?  ' 

"  They  go  out  one  by  one.  I  stay  till  the  last.  Just 
then  another  passer-by  begins  to  knock  on  the  window — 
another  who  was  dying  for  a  mouthful  of  coffee. 
Mariette  by  the  open  door  leaned  forward  and  cried, 
'  One  second  !  ' 

"  Then  she  put  into  my  arms  a  parcel  that  she  had 
ready  :  '  I  had  bought  a  knuckle  of  ham — it  was  for 
supper — for  us — for  us  two — and  a  litre  of  good  wine. 
But,  ma  foi!  when  I  saw  there  were  five  of  you,  I  didn't 
want  to  divide  it  out  so  much,  and  I  want  still  less  now. 
There's  the  ham,  the  bread,  and  the  wine.  I  give  them 
to  you  so  that  you  can  enjoy  them  by  yourself,  my 
boy.  As  for  them,  we  have  given  them  enough/  she 
says. 

"  Poor  Mariette,"  sighs  Eudore.  "  Fifteen  months 
since  I'd  seen  her.  And  when  shall  I  see  her  again  ? 
Ever? — It  was  jolly,  that  idea  of  hers.  She  crammed 
all  that  stuff  into  my  bag " 

He  half  opens  his  brown  canvas  pouch. 

"  Look,  here  they  are  !  The  ham  here,  and  the 
bread,  and  there's  the  booze.  Well,  seeing  it's  there, 
you  don't  know  what  we're  going  to  do  with  it? 
We're  going  to  share  it  out  between  us,  eh,  old  pals  ?  " 


IX 

THE  ANGER  OF  VOLPATTE 

WHEN  Volpatte  arrived  from  his  sick-leave,  after  two 
months'  absence,  we  surrounded  him.  But  he  was 
sullen  and  silent,  and  tried  to  get  away. 

"  Well,  what  about  it  ?  Volpatte,  have  you  nothing 
to  tell  us  ?  " 

"  Tell  us  all  about  the  hospital  and  the  sick-leave, 
old  cock,  from  the  day  when  you  set  off  in  your 
bandages,  with  your  snout  in  parenthesis  !  You  must 
have  seen  something  of  the  official  shops.  Speak  then, 
nom  dc  Dieu  !  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  at  all  about  it,"  said 
Volpatte. 

"  What's  that  ?     What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  I'm  fed  up — that's  what  I  am  !  The  people  back 
there,  I'm  sick  of  them — they  make  me  spew,  and  you 
can  tell  'em  so  !  " 

"  \Vhat  have  they  done  to  you  ?  " 

"  A  lot  of  sods,  they  are  !  "  says  Volpatte. 

There  he  was,  with  his  head  as  of  yore,  his  ears 
"  stuck  on  again  "  and  his  Mongolian  cheekbones — 
stubbornly  set  in  the  middle  of  the  puzzled  circle  that 
besieged  him  ;  and  we  felt  that  the  mouth  fast  closed  on 
ominous  silence  meant  high  pressure  of  seething  exaspera- 
tion in  the  depth  of  him. 

Some  words  overflowed  from  him  at  last.  He  turned 
round — facing  towards  the  rear  and  the  bases — and  shook 
his  fist  at  infinite  space.  "  There  are  too  many  of  them," 
he  said  between  his  teeth,  "  there  are  too  many  !  " 
He  seemed  to  be  threatening  and  repelling  a  rising  sea 
of  phantoms. 

107 


io8  UNDER  FIRE 

A  little  later,  we  questioned  him  again,  knowing  well 
that  his  anger  could  not  thus  be  retained  within,  and 
that  the  savage  silence  would  explode  at  the  first  chance. 

It  was  in  a  deep  communication  trench,  away  back, 
where  we  had  come  together  for  a  meal  after  a  morning 
spent  in  digging.  Torrential  rain  was  falling.  We 
were  muddled  and  drenched  and  hustled  by  the  flood, 
and  we  ate  standing  in  single  file,  without  shelter,  under 
the  dissolving  sky.  Only  by  feats  of  skill  could  we 
protect  the  bread  and  bully  from  the  spouts  that  flowed 
from  every  point  in  space ;  and  while  we  ate  we  put 
our  hands  and  faces  as  much  as  possible  under  our  cowls. 
The  rain  rattled  and  bounced  and  streamed  on  our  limp 
woven  armour,  and  worked  with  open  brutality  or  sly 
secrecy  into  ourselves  and  our  food.  Our  feet  were 
sinking  farther  and  farther,  taking  deep  root  in  the 
stream  that  flowed  along  the  clayey  bottom  of  the  trench. 
Some  faces  were  laughing,  though  their  moustaches 
dripped.  Others  grimaced  at  the  spongy  bread  and 
flabby  meat,  or  at  the  missiles  which  attacked  their 
skin  from  all  sides  at  every  defect  in  their  heavy  and 
miry  armour-plate. 

Barque,  who  was  hugging  his  mess-tin  to  his  heart, 
bawled  at  Volpatte  :  "  Well  then,  a  lot  of  sods,  you  say, 
that  you've  seen  down  there  where  you've  been  ?  " 

"  For  instance  ?  "  cried  Blaire,  while  a  redoubled 
squall  shook  and  scattered  his  words;  "what  have 
you  seen  in  the  way  of  sods  ?  " 

"  There  are '  Volpatte  began,  "  and  then — there 

are  too  many  of  them,  nom  de  Dieu  I  There  are " 

He  tried  to  say  what  was  the  matter  with  him,  but 
could  only  repeat,  "  There  are  too  many  of  them  !  " 
oppressed  and  panting.  He  swallowed  a  pulpy  mouth- 
ful of  bread  as  if  there  went  with  it  the  disordered  and 
suffocating  mass  of  his  memories. 

"Is  it  the  shirkers  you  want  to  talk  about  ?  " 

"  By  God  !  "  He  had  thrown  the  rest  of  his  beef  over 
the  parapet,  and  this  cry,  this  gasp,  escaped  violently 
from  his  mouth  as  if  from  a  valve. 


THE  ANGER  OF  VOLPATTE      109 

"  Don't  worry  about  the  soft- job  brigade,  old  cross- 
patch/'  advised  Barque,  banteringly,  but  not  without 
some  bitterness.  "  What  good  does  it  do  ?  " 

Concealed  and  huddled  up  under  the  fragile  and 
unsteady  roof  of  his  oiled  hood,  while  the  water  poured 
down  its  shining  slopes,  and  holding  his  empty  mess- 
tin  out  for  the  rain  to  clean  it,  Volpatte  snarled,  "  I'm 
not  daft — not  a  bit  of  it — and  I  know  very  well  there've 
got  to  be  these  individuals  at  the  rear.  Let  them  have 
their  dead-heads  for  all  I  care — but  there's  too  many 
of  them,  and  they're  all  alike,  and  all  rotters,  voild  !  " 

Relieved  by  this  affirmation,  which  shed  a  little  light 
on  the  gloomy  farrago  of  fury  he  was  loosing  among 
us,  Volpatte  began  to  speak  in  fragments  across  the 
relentless  sheets  of  rain — 

"  At  the  very  first  village  they  sent  me  to,  I  saw 
duds,  and  duds  galore,  and  they  began  to  get  on  my 
nerves.  All  sorts  of  departments  and  sub-departments 
and  managements  and  centres  and  offices  and  committees 
— you're  no  sooner  there  than  you  meet  swarms  of  fools, 
swarms  of  different  services  that  are  only  different  in 
name — enough  to  turn  your  brain.  I  tell  you,  the  man 
that  invented  the  names  of  all  those  committees,  he  was 
wrong  in  his  head. 

"  So  could  I  help  but  be  sick  of  it?  Ah,  mon 
vieux,"  said  our  comrade,  musing,  "  all  those  individuals 
fiddle-faddling  and  making  believe  down  there,  all 
spruced  up  with  their  fine  caps  and  officers'  coats  and 
shameful  boots,  that  gulp  dainties  and  can  put  a  dram 
of  best  brandy  down  their  gullets  whenever  they 
want,  and  wash  themselves  oftener  twice  than  once, 
and  go  to  church,  and  never  stop  smoking,  and  pack 
themselves  up  in  feathers  at  night  to  read  the  newspaper 
— and  then  they  say  afterwards,  '  I've  been  in  the 
war  !  '  " 

One  point  above  all  had  got  hold  of  Volpatte  and 
emerged  from  his  confused  and  impassioned  vision  : 
"  All  those  soldiers,  they  haven't  to  run  away  with 
their  table -tools  and  get  a  bite  any  old  way — they've 


no  UNDER  FIRE 

got  to  be  at  their  ease — they'd  rather  go  and  sit  them- 
selves down  with  some  tart  in  the  district,  at  a  special 
reserved  table,  and  guzzle  vegetables,  and  the  fine  lady 
puts  their  crockery  out  all  square  for  them  on  the 
dining-table,  and  their  pots  of  jam  and  every  other 
blasted  thing  to  eat ;  in  short,  the  advantages  of  riches 
and  peace  in  that  doubly-damned  hell  they  call  the 
Rear !  " 

Volpatte 's  neighbour  shook  his  head  under  the 
torrents  that  fell  from  heaven  and  said,  "  So  much  the 
better  for  them." 

"  I'm  not  crazy "  Volpatte  began  again. 

"  P'raps,  but  you're  not  fair." 

Volpatte  felt  himself  insulted  by  the  word.  He 
started,  and  raised  his  head  furiously,  and  the  rain, 
that  was  waiting  for  the  chance,  took  him  plump  in 
the  face.  "  Not  fair — me  ?  Not  fair — to  those  dung- 
hills ?  " 

"Exactly,  monsieur,"  the  neighbour  replied;  "I 
tell  you  that  you  play  hell  with  them  and  yet  you'd 
jolly  well  like  to  be  in  the  rotters'  place." 

"  Very  likely — but  what  does  that  prove,  rump-face  ? 
To  begin  with,  we,  wc'vebeen  in  danger,  and  it  ought  to 
be  our  turn  for  the  other.  But  they're  always  the  same, 
I  tell  you ;  and  then  there's  young  men  there,  strong  as 
bulls  and  poised  like  wrestlers,  and  then — there  are 
too  many  of  them  !  D'you  hear?  It's  always  too 
many,  I  say,  because  it  is  so." 

"Too  many?  What  do  you  know  about  it,  vilain? 
These  departments  and  committees,  do  you  know  what 
they  are  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  are,"  Volpatte  set  off 
again,  "  but  I  know " 

"  Don't  you  think  they  need  a  crowd  to  keep  all  the 
army's  affairs  going  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  a  damn,  but — —  ' 

"  But  you  wish  it  was  you,  eh  ?  "  chaffed  the  in- 
visible neighbour,  who  concealed  in  the  depth  of  the  hood 
on  which  the  reservoirs  of  space  were  emptying  either 


THE  ANGER  OF  VOLPATTE       in  , 

if 

a  supreme  indifference  or  a  cruel  desire  to  take  a  rise 
out  of  Volpatte. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  the  other,  simply.     - 

"  There's  those  that  can  help  it  for  you,"  interposed 
the  shrill  voice  of  Barque ;  "I  knew  one  of  'em " 

"  I,  too,  I've  seen  'em  !  "  Volpatte  yelled  with  a 
desperate  effort  through  the  storm.  "  Tiens!  not  far 
from  the  front,  don't  know  where  exactly,  where  there's 
an  ambulance  clearing-station  and  a  sous-intendance — I 
met  the  reptile  there." 

The  wind,  as  it  passed  over  us,  tossed  him  the  question, 
"  What  was  it  ?  " 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  lull,  and  the  weather 
allowed  Volpatte  to  talk  after  a  fashion.  He  said  : 
"  He  took  me  round  all  the  jumble  of  the  depot  as  if 
it  was  a  fair,  although  he  was  one  of  the  sights  of  the 
place.  He  led  me  along  the  passages  and  into  the 
dining-rooms  of  houses  and  supplementary  barracks. 
He  half  opened  doors  with  labels  on  them,  and  said, 
'  Look  here,  and  here  too — look  I '  I  went  inspecting 
with  him,  but  he  didn't  go  back,  like  I  did,  to  the 
trenches,  don't  fret  yourself,  and  he  wasn't  coming  back 
from  them  either,  don't  worry  !  The  reptile,  the  first 
time  I  saw  him  he  was  walking  nice  and  leisurely  in 
the  yard — '  I'm  in  the  Expenses  Department,'  he  says. 
We  talked  a  bit,  and  the  next  day  he  got  an  orderly 
job  so  as  to  dodge  getting  sent  away,  seeing  it  was  his 
turn  to  go  since  the  beginning  of  the  war. 

"  On  the  step  of  the  door  where  he'd  laid  all  night 
on  a  feather  bed,  he  was  polishing  the  pumps  of  his 
monkey  master — beautiful  yellow  pumps — rubbing  'em 
with  paste,  fairly  glazing  'em,  my  boy.  I  stopped 
to  watch  him,  and  the  chap  told  me  all  about  himself. 
Mon  vieux,  I  don't  remember  much  more  of  the  stuffing 
that  came  out  of  his  crafty  skull  than  I  remember  of 
the  History  of  France  and  the  dates  we  whined  at 
school.  Never,  I  tell  you,  had  he  been  sent  to  the  front, 
although  he  was  Class  icps,1  and  a  lusty  devil  at  that, 
1  Thirty  or  thirty-oUe  years  old  in  1914. — Tr. 


ii2  UNDER  FIRE 

he  was.  Danger  and  dog-tiredness  and  all  the  ugliness 
of  war — not  for  him,  but  for  the  others,  oui.  He  knew 
damned  well  that  if  he  set  foot  in  the  firing-line,  the 
line  would  see  that  the  beast  got  it,  so  he  ran  like  hell 
from  it,  and  stopped  where  he  was.  He  said  they'd 
tried  all  ways  to  get  him,  but  he'd  given  the  slip  to  all 
the  captains,  all  the  colonels,  all  the  majors,  and  they 
were  all  damnably  mad  with  him.  He  told  me  about 
it.  How  did  he  work  it  ?  He'd  sit  down  all  of  a  sudden, 
put  on  a  stupid  look,  do  the  scrimshanker  stunt,  and  flop 
like  a  bundle  of  dirty  linen.  l  I've  got  a  sort  of  general 
fatigue,'  he'd  blubber.  They  didn't  know  how  to  take 
him,  and  after  a  bit  they  just  let  him  drop — everybody 
was  fit  to  spew  on  him.  And  he  changed  his  tricks  accord- 
ing to  the  circumstances,  d'you  catch  on  ?  Sometimes 
he  had  something  wrong  with  his  foot — he  was  damned 
clever  with  his  feet.  And  then  he  contrived  things, 
and  he  knew  one  head  from  another,  and  how  to  take  his 
opportunities.  He  knew  what's  what,  he  did.  You 
could  see  him  go  and  slip  in  like  a  pretty  poilu  among 
the  depot  chaps,  where  the  soft  jobs  were,  and  stay 
there ;  and  then  he'd  put  himself  out  no  end  to  be 
useful  to  the  pals.  He'd  get  up  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  to  make  the  juice,  go  and  fetch  the  water  while 
the  others  were  getting  their  grub.  At  last,  he'd 
wormed  himself  in  everywhere,  he  came  to  be  one  of  the 
family,  the  rotter,  the  carrion.  He  did  it  so  he  wouldn't 
have  to  do  it.  He  seemed  to  me  like  an  individual 
that  would  have  earned  five  quid  honestly  with  the  same 
work  and  bother  that  he  puts  into  forging  a  one-pound 
note.  But  there,  he'll  get  his  skin  out  of  it  all  right, 
he  will.  At  the  front  he'd  be  lost  sight  of  in  the  throng 
of  it,  but  he's  not  so  stupid.  Be  damned  to  them,  he 
says,  that  take  their  grub  on  the  ground,  and  be  damned 
to  them  still  more  when  they're  under  it.  When  we've 
all  done  with  fighting,  he'll  go  back  home  and  he'll  say 
to  his  friends  and  neighbours, '  Here  lam  safe  and  sound/ 
and  his  pals  '11  be  glad,  because  he's  a  good  sort,  with 
engaging  manners,  contemptible  creature  that  he  is, 


THE  ANGER   OF  VOLPATTE      113 

and — and  this  is  the  most  stupid  thing  of  all — but  he 
takes  you  in  and  you  swallow  him  whole,  the  son  of 
a  bug. 

"And  then,  those  sort  of  beings,  don't  you  believe 
there's  only  one  of  them.  There  are  barrels  of  'em  in 
every  depot,  that  hang  on  and  writhe  when  their  time 
comes  to  go,  and  they  say,  '  I'm  not  going,'  and  they 
don't  go,  and  they  never  succeed  in  driving  them  as  far 
as  the  front." 

"  Nothing  new  in  all  that,"  said  Barque,  "  we  know  it, 
we  know  it  !  " 

"  Then  there  are  the  offices,"  Volpatte  went  on, 
engrossed  in  his  story  of  travel;  "whole  houses  and 
streets  and  districts.  I  saw  that  my  little  corner  in  the 
rear  was  only  a  speck,  and  I  had  full  view  of  them. 
Non,  I'd  never  have  believed  there'd  be  so  many  men 
on  chairs  while  war  was  going  on " 

A  hand  protruded  from  the  rank  and  made  trial  of 
space — "  No  more  sauce  falling  " — "  Then  we're  going 
out,  bet  your  life  on  it."  So  "  March  !  "  was  the  cry. 

The  storm  held  its  peace.  We  filed  off  in  the  long 
narrow  swamp  stagnating  in  the  bottom  of  the  trench 
where  the  moment  before  it  had  shaken  under  slabs  of 
rain.  Volpatte 's  grumbling  began  again  amidst  our 
sorry  stroll  and  the  eddies  -of  floundering  feet.  I 
listened  to  him  as  I  watched  the  shoulders  of  a  poverty- 
stricken  overcoat  swaying  in  front  of  me,  drenched 
through  and  through.  This  time  Volpatte  was  on  the 
track  of  the  police — 

"  The  farther  you  go  from  the  front  the  more  you  see 
of  them." 

"  Their  battlefield  is  not  the  same  as  ours." 

Tulacque  had  an  ancient  grudge  against  them. 
"  Look,"  he  said,  "  how  the  bobbies  spread  themselves 
about  to  get  good  lodgings  and  good  food,  and  then, 
after  the  drinking  regulations,  they  dropped  on  the 
secret  wine-sellers.  You  saw  them  lying  in  wait,  with 
a  comer  of  an  eye  on  the  shop-doors,  to  see  if  there 
weren't  any  poilus  slipping  quietly  out,  two-faced  that 
I 


ii4  UNDER  FIRE 

they  are,  leering  to  left  and  to  right  and  licking  their 
moustaches." 

"  There  are  good  ones  among  'em.  I  knew  one  in  my 
country,  the  Cote  d'Or,  where  I " 

"  Shut  up !  "  was  Tulacque's  peremptory  interruption  ; 
"  they're  all  alike.  There  isn't  one  that  can  put  another 
right." 

:(  Yes,  they're  lucky,"  said  Volpatte,  "  but  do  you 
think  they're  contented?  Not  a  bit;  they  grouse. 
At  least,"  he  corrected  himself,  "  there  was  one  I  met, 
and  he  was  a  grouser.  He  was  devilish  bothered  by  the 
drill-manual.  '  It  isn't  worth  while  to  learn  the  drill 
instruction,'  he  said,  '  they're  always  changing  it. 
F'r  instance,  take  the  department  of  military  police ; 
well,  as  soon  as  you've  got  the  gist  of  it,  it's  something 
else.  Ah,  when  will  this  war  be  over?  '  he  says." 

"  They  do  what  they're  told  to  do,  those  chaps," 
ventured  Eudore. 

"  Surely.  It  isn't  their  fault  at  all.  It  doesn't  alter 
the  fact  that  these  professional  soldiers,  pensioned  and 
decorated  in  the  time  when  we're  only  civvies,  will 
have  made  war  in  a  damned  funny  way." 

"  That  reminds  me  of  a  forester  that  I  saw  as  well," 
said  Volpatte,  "  who  played  hell  about  the  fatigues 
they  put  him  to.  '  It's  disgusting,'  the  fellow  said  to 
me,  '  what  they  do  with  us.  We're  old  non-coms., 
soldiers  that  have  done  four  years  of  service  at  least. 
We're  paid  on  the  higher  scale,  it's  true,  but  what  of 
that  ?  We  are  Officials,  and  yet  they  humiliate  us. 
At  H.Q.  they  set  us  to  cleaning,  and  carrying  the  dung 
away.  The  civilians  see  the  treatment  they  inflict  on 
us,  and  they  look  down  on  us.  And  if  you  look  like 
grousing,  they'll  actually  talk  about  sending  you  off 
to  the  trenches,  like  foot-soldiers  !  What's  going  to 
become  of  our  prestige  ?  When  we  go  back  to  the 
parishes  as  rangers  after  the  war — if  we  do  come  back 
from  it — the  people  of  the  villages  and  forests  will  say, 
"  Ah,  it  was  you  that  was  sweeping  the  streets  at 
X !  "  To  get  back  our  prestige,  compromised  by 


THE  ANGER  OF  VOLPATTE       115 

human  injustice  and  ingratitude,  I  know  well/  he  says, 
'  that  we  shall  have  to  make  complaints,  and  make 
complaints  and  make  'em  with  all  our  might,  to  the 
rich  and  to  the  influential  !  '  he  says." 

"  I  knew  a  gendarme  who  was  all  right,"  said  Lamuse. 
"  '  The  police  are  temperate  enough  in  general/  he  says, 
'  but  there  are  always  dirty  devils  everywhere,  pas  ? 
The  civilian  is  really  afraid  of  the  gendarme/  says  he, 
'  and  that's  a  fact ;  and  so,  I  admit  it,  there  are  some 
who  take  advantage  of  it,  and  those  ones — the  tag-rag 
of  the  gendarmerie — know  where  to  get  a  glass  or  two. 
If  I  was  Chief  or  Brigadier,  I'd  screw  'em  down,  not  half 
I  wouldn't/  he  says ;  '  for  puHic  opinion/  he  says  again, 
1  lays  the  blame  on  the  whole  force  when  a  single  one 
with  a  grievance  makes  a  complaint.'  ' 

"As  for  me,"  says  Paradis,  "  one  of  the  worst  days 
of  my  life  was  once  when  I  saluted  a  gendarme,  taking 
him  for  a  lieutenant,  with  his  white  stripes.  Fortunately 
— I  don't  say  it  to  console  myself,  but  because  it's 
probably  true — fortunately,  I  don't  think  he  saw  me." 

A  silence.  "  Oui,  'vidently,"  the  men  murmured; 
"  but  what  about  it  ?  No  need  to  worry." 

*  *  *  #  *  * 

A  little  later,  when  we  were  seated  along  a  wall, 
with  our  backs  to  the  stones,  and  our  feet  plunged 
and  planted  in  the  ground,  Volpatte  continued  unloading 
his  impressions. 

"  I  went  into  a  big  room  that  was  a  Depot  office — 
book-keeping  department,  I  believe.  It  swarmed  with 
tables,  and  people  in  it  like  in  a  market.  Clouds  of 
talk.  All  along  the  walls  on  each  side  and  in  the 
middle,  personages  sitting  in  front  of  their  spread-out 
goods  like  waste-paper  merchants.  I  put  in  a  request 
to  be  put  back  into  my  regiment,  and  they  said  to  me, 
'  Take  your  damned  hook,  and  get  busy  with  it/  I  lit 
on  a  sergeant,  a  little  chap  with  airs,  spick  as  a  daisy, 
with  a  gold-rimmed  spy-glass — eye-glasses  with  a  tape 
on  them.  He  was  young,  but  being  a  re-enlisted  soldier, 
he  had  the  right  not  to  go  to  the  front.  I  said  to  him, 


ii6  UNDER  FIRE 

'  Sergeant  !  '  But  he  didn't  hear  me,  being  busy 
slanging  a  secretary — '  It's  unfortunate,  mon  gargon* 
he  was  saying ; '  I've  told  you  twenty  times  that  you  must 
send  one  notice  of  it  to  be  carried  out  by  the  Squadron 
Commander,  Provost  of  the  C.A.,  and  one  by  way  of 
advice,  without  signature,  but  making  mention  of  the 
signature,  to  the  Provost  of  the  Force  PuUique  d' Amiens 
and  of  the  centres  of  the  district,  of  which  you  have  the 
list — in  envelopes,  of  course,  of  the  general  commanding 
the  district.  It's  very  simple/  he  says. 

"I'd  drawn  back  three  paces  to  wait  till  he'd  done 
with  jawing.  Five  minutes  after,  I  went  up  to  the 
sergeant.  He  said  to  me,  '  My  dear  sir,  I  have  not  the 
time  to  bother  with  you ;  I  have  many  other  matters 
to  attend  to.'  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  all  in  a 
flummox  in  front  of  his  typewriter,  the  chump,  because 
he'd  forgotten,  he  said,  to  press  on  the  capital-letter  lever, 
and  so,  instead  of  underlining  the  heading  of  his  page, 
he'd  damn  well  scored  a  line  of  8's  in  the  middle  of  the 
top.  So  he  couldn't  hear  anything,  and  he  played  hell 
with  the  Americans,  seeing  the  machine  came  from  there. 

"  After  that,  he  growled  against  another  woolly-leg, 
because  on  the  memorandum  of  the  distribution  of 
maps  they  hadn't  put  the  names  of  the  Ration  Depart- 
ment, the  Cattle  Department,  and  the  Administrative 
Convoy  of  the  328th  D.I. 

"  Alongside,  a  fool  was  obstinately  trying  to  pull 
more  circulars  off  a  jellygraph  than  it  would  print, 
doing  his  damnedest  to  produce  a  lot  of  ghosts  that 
you  could  hardly  read.  Others  were  talking  :  '  Where 
are  the  Parisian  fasteners  ?  '  asked  a  toff.  And  they 
don't  call  things  by  their  proper  names  :  '  Tell  me 
now,  if  you  please,  what  are  the  elements  quartered 

at  X ?'  The  elements!  What's  all  that  sort  oi 

babble  ?  "  asked  Volpatte. 

"  At  the  end  of  the  big  table  where  these  fellows 
were  that  I've  mentioned  and  that  I'd  been  to,  and  the 
sergeant  floundering  about  behind  a  hillock  of  papers 
at  the  top  of  it  and  giving  orders,  a  simpleton  was  doing 


THE  ANGER  OF  VOLPATTE      117 

nothing  but  tap  on  his  blotting-pad  with  his  hands. 
His  job,  the  mug,  was  the  department  of  leave-papers, 
and  as  the  big  push  had  begun  and  all  leave  was  stopped, 
he  hadn't  anything  to  do — '  Capital  !  '  he  says. 

"  And  all  that,  that's  one  table  in  one  room  in  one 
department  in  one  depot.  I've  seen  more,  and  then 
more,  and  more  and  more  again.  I  don't  know,  but 
it's  enough  to  drive  you  off  your  nut,  I  tell  you/' 

"  Had  they  got  brisques1?  " 

"  Not  many  there,  but  in  the  department  of  the  second 
line  every  one  had  'em.  You  had  museums  of  'em 
there — whole  Zoological  Gardens  of  stripes." 

"  Prettiest  thing  I've  seen  in  the  way  of  stripes," 
said  Tulacque,  "  was  a  motorist,  dressed  in  cloth  that 
you'd  have  said  was  satin,  with  new  stripes,  and  the 
leathers  of  an  English  officer,  though  a  second-class 
soldier  as  he  was.  With  his  finger  on  his  cheek,  he  leaned 
with  his  elbows  on  that  fine  carriage  adorned  with 
windows  that  he  was  the  valet  de  chambre  of.  He'd 
have  made  you  sick,  the  dainty  beast.  He  was  just 
exactly  the  poilu  that  you  see  pictures  of  in  the  ladies' 
papers — the  pretty  little  naughty  papers." 

Each  has  now  his  memories,  his  tirade  on  this  much- 
excogitated  subject  of  the  shirkers,  and  all  begin  to 
overflow  and  to  talk  at  once.  A  hubbub  surrounds  the 
foot  of  the  mean  wall  where  we  are  heaped  like  bundles, 
with  a  grey,  muddy,  and  trampled  spectacle  lying  before 
us,  laid  waste  by  rain. 

"  — orderly  in  waiting  to  the  Road  Department, 
then  at  the  Bakery,  then  cyclist  to  the  Revictualling 
Department  of  the  Eleventh  Battery." 

"  — every  morning  he  had  a  note  to  take  to  the  Service 
de  I'lntendance,  to  the  Gunnery  School,  to  the  Bridges 
Department,  and  in  the  evening  to  the  A.D.  and  the 
A.T.— that  was  all." 

"  — '  when  I  was  coming  back  from  leave,'  said  that 
orderly,  '  the  women  cheered  us  at  all  the  level-crossing 

A-shape  badges  worn  on  the  left  arm  to  indicate  the  duration 
of  service  at  the  front. — Tr. 


ii8  UNDER  FIRE 

gates  that  the  train  passed.'  '  They  took  you  for 
soldiers/  I  said." 

"  — '  Ah/  I  said,  '  you're  called  up,  then,  are  you?  ' 
'  Certainly/  he  says  to  me,  '  considering  that  I've  been 
a  round  of  meetings  in  America  with  a  Ministerial  depu- 
tation. P'raps  it's  not  exactly  being  called  up,  that? 
Anyway,  mon  ami,'  he  says,  '  I  don't  pay  any  rent,  so  I 
must  be  called  up.'  '  And  me '  " 

"  To  finish,"  cries  Volpatte,  silencing  the  hum  with 
his  authority  of  a  traveller  returned  from  "  down  there/' 
"  to  finish,  I  saw  a  whole  legion  of  'em  all  together  at  a 
blow-out.  For  two  days  I  was  a  sort  of  helper  in  the 
kitchen  of  one  of  the  centres  of  the  C.O.A.,  'cos  they 
couldn't  let  me  do  nothing  while  waiting  for  my  reply, 
which  didn't  hurry,  seeing  they'd  sent  another  inquiry 
and  a  super-inquiry  after  it,  and  the  reply  had  too  many 
halts  to  make  in  each  office,  going  and  coming. 

"  In  short,  I  was  cook  in  the  shop.  Once  I  waited 
at  table,  seeing  that  the  head  cook  had  just  got  back  from 
leave  for  the  fourth  time  and  was  tired.  I  saw  and  I 
heard  those  people  every  time  I  went  into  the  dining- 
room,  that  was  in  the  Prefecture,  and  all  that  hot  and 
illuminated  row  got  into  my  head.  They  were  only 
auxiliaries  in  there,  but  there  were  plenty  of  the  armed 
service  among  the  number,  too.  They  were  almost  all 
old  men,  with  a  few  young  ones  besides,  sitting  here  and 
there. 

"  I'd  begun  to  get  about  enough  of  it  when  one  of  the 
broomsticks  said,  '  The  shutters  must  be  closed ;  it's 
more  prudent.'  My  boy,  they  were  a  lump  of  a 
hundred  and  twenty- five  miles  from  the  firing-line,  but 
that  pock-marked  puppy  he  wanted  to  make  believe 
there  was  danger  of  bombardment  by  aircraft " 

"  And  there's  my  cousin,"  said  Tulacque,  fumbling, 
"  who  wrote  to  me — Look,  here's  what  he  says :  *  Mon 
cher  Adolphe,  here  I  am  definitely  settled  in  Paris  as 
attache  to  Guard- Room  60.  While  you  are  down  there, 
I  must  stay  in  the  capital  at  the  mercy  of  a  Taube  or  a 
Zeppelin  ! '  " 


THE  ANGER  OF  VOLPATTE       119 

The  phrase  sheds  a  tranquil  delight  abroad,  and  we 
assimilate  it  like  a  tit-bit,  laughing. 

"  After  that,"  Volpatte  went  on,  "  those  layers  of 
soft-jobbers  fed  me  up  still  more.  As  a  dinner  it  was 
all  right — cod,  seeing  it  was  Friday,  but  prepared  like 
soles  a  la  Marguerite — I  know  all  about  it.  But  the 
talk  ! " 

"  They  call  the  bayonet  Rosalie,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  padded  luneys.  But  during  dinner  these 
gentlemen  talked  above  all  about  themselves.  Every 
one,  so  as  to  explain  why  he  wasn't  somewhere  else,  as 
good  as  said  (but  all  the  while  saying  something  else 
and  gorging  like  an  ogre),  '  I'm  ill,  I'm  feeble,  look  at 
me,  ruin  that  I  am.  Me,  I'm  in  my  dotage.'  They 
were  all  seeking  inside  themselves  to  find  diseases  to 
wrap  themselves  up  in — '  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  war,  but 
I've  a  rupture,  two  ruptures,  three  ruptures.'  Ah,  non, 
that  feast  ! — '  The  orders  that  speak  of  sending  every- 
body away,'  explained  a  funny  man,  '  they're  like  the 
comedies,'  he  explained,  '  there's  always  a  last  act  to 
clear  up  all  the  jobbery  of  the  others.  That  third  act 
is  this  paragraph,  "  Unless  the  requirements  of  the  De- 
partments, stand  in  the  way."  There  was  one  that 
told  this  tale,  '  I  had  three  friends  that  I  counted  on  to 
give  me  a  lift  up.  I  was  going  to  apply  to  them ;  but, 
one  after  another,  a  little  before  I  put  my  request,  they 
were  killed  by  the  enemy;  look  at  that/  he  says, 
'  I've  no  luck  !  '  Another  was  explaining  to  another 
that,  as  for  him,  he  would  very  much  have  liked  to  go, 
but  the  surgeon -major  had  taken  him  round  the  waist 
to  keep  him  by  force  in  the  depot  with  the  auxiliary. 
'  Eh  bien,'  he  says,  '  I  resigned  myself.  After  all,  I 
shall  be  of  greater  value  in  putting  my  intellect  to  the 
service  of  the  country  than  in  carrying  a  knapsack.' 
And  him  that  was  alongside  said,  '  Oui,'  with  his  head- 
piece feathered  on  top.  He'd  jolly  well  consented  to  go 
to  Bordeaux  at  the  time  when  the  Boches  were  getting 
near  Paris,  and  then  Bordeaux  became  the  stylish  place ; 
but  afterwards  he  returned  firmly  to  the  front — to  Paris 


120  UNDER  FIRE 

— and  said  something  like  this,  '  My  ability  is  of  value 
to  France ;  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I  guard  it  for 
France/ 

"  They  talked  about  other  people  that  weren't  there 
— of  the  commandant  who  was  getting  an  impossible 
temper,  and  they  explained  that  the  more  imbecile  he 
got  the  harsher  he  got ;  and  the  General  that  made  un- 
expected inspections  with  the  idea  of  kicking  all  the 
soft-jobbers  out,  but  who'd  been  laid  up  for  eight  days, 
very  ill — '  he's  certainly  going  to  die ;  his  condition  no 
longer  gives  rise  to  any  uneasiness,'  they  said,  smoking 
the  cigarettes  that  Society  swells  send  to  the  depots 
for  the  soldiers  at  the  front.  '  D'you  know/  they  said, 
'  little  Frazy,  who  is  such  a  nice  boy,  the  cherub,  he's  at 
last  found  an  excuse  for  staying  behind.  They  wanted 
some  cattle  slaughterers  for  the  abattoir,  and  he's  en- 
listed himself  in  there  for  protection,  although  he's  got 
a  University  degree  and  in  spite  of  being  an  attorney's 
clerk.  As  for  Flandrin's  son,  he's  succeeded  in  getting 
himself  attached  to  the  roadmenders. — Roadmender, 
him  ?  Do  you  think  they'll  let  him  stop  so  ? '  '  Certain 
sure/  replies  on^  of  the  cowardly  milksops.  '  A  road- 
mender's  job  is  for  a  long  time/  " 

"  Talk  about  idiots/'  Marthereau  growls. 

"  And  they  were  all  jealous,  I  don't  know  why,  of  a 
chap  called  Bourin.  Formerly  he  moved  in  the  best 
Parisian  circles.  He  lunched  and  dined  in  the  city.  He 
made  eighteen  calls  a  day,  and  fluttered  about  the 
drawing-rooms  from  afternoon  tea  till  daybreak.  He 
was  indefatigable  in  leading  cotillons,  organising  festivi- 
ties, swallowing  theatrical  shows,  without  counting  the 
motoring  parties,  and  all  the  lot  running  with  cham- 
pagne. Then  the  war  came.  So  he's  no  longer 
capable,  the  poor  boy,  of  staying  on  the  look-out  a  bit 
late  at  an  embrasure,  or  of  cutting  wire.  He  must  stay 
peacefully  in  the  warm.  And  then,  him,  a  Parisian,  to 
go  into  the  provinces  and  bury  himself  in  the  trenches  ! 
Never  in  this  world  !  '  I  realise,  too/  replied  an  indivi- 
dual, '  that  at  thirty-seven  I've  arrived  at  the  age  when 


THE  ANGER  OF  VOLPATTE       121 

I  must  take  care  of  myself  !  '  And  while  the  fellow  was 
saying  that,  I  was  thinking  of  Dumont  the  gamekeeper, 
who  was  forty-two,  and  was  done  in  close  to  me  on 
Hill  132,  so  near  that  after  he  got  the  handful  of  bullets 
in  his  head,  my  body  shook  with  the  trembling  of 
his." 
x*  "  And  what  were  they  like  with  you,  these  thieves  ?  " 

"  To  hell  with  me,  it  was,  but  they  didn't  show  it  too 
much,  only  now  and  again  when  they  couldn't  hold 
themselves  in.  They  looked  at  me  out  of  the  corner  of 
their  eyes,  and  took  damn  good  care  not  to  touch  me 
in  passing,  for  I  was  still  war-mucky. 

"  It  disgusted  me  a  bit  to  be  in  the  middle  of  that 
heap  of  good-for-nothings,  but  I  said  to  myself,  '  Come, 
it's  only  for  a  bit,  Firmin.'  There  was  just  one  time 
that  I  very  near  broke  out  with  the  itch,  and  that  was 
when  one  of  'em  said,  '  Later,  when  we  return,  if  we  do 
return.' — NO  !  He  had  no  right  to  say  that.  Say- 
ings like  that,  before  you  let  them  out  of  your  gob, 
you've  got  to  earn  them ;  it's  like  a  decoration.  Let 
them  get  cushy  jobs,  if  they  like,  but  not  play  at  being 
men  in  the  open  when  they've  damned  well  run  away. 
And  you  hear  'em  discussing  the  battles,  for  they're  in 
closer  touch  than  you  with  the  big  bugs  and  with  the 
way  the  war's  managed;  and  afterwards,  when  you 
return,  if  you  do  return,  it's  you  that'll  be  wrong  in  the 
middle  of  all  that  crowd  of  humbugs,  with  the  poor  little 
truth  that  you've  got. 

"Ah,  that  evening,  I  tell  you,  all  those  heads  in  the 
reek  of  the  light,  the  foolery  of  those  people  enjoying 
life  and  profiting  by  peace  !  It  was  like  a  ballet  at  the 
theatre  or  the  make-believe  of  a  magic  lantern.  There 
were — there  were — there  are  a  hundred  thousand  more 
of  them,"  Volpatte  at  last  concluded  in  confusion. 

But  the  men  who  were  paying  for  the  safety  of  the 
others  with  their  strength  and  their  lives  enjoyed  the 
wrath  that  choked  him,  that  brought  him  to  bay  in  his 
corner,  and  overwhelmed  him  with  the  apparitions  of 
shirkers. 


122  UNDER  FIRE 

"  Lucky  he  doesn't  start  talking  about  the  factory 
hands  who've  served  their  apprenticeship  in  the  war, 
and  all  those  who've  stayed  at  home  under  the  excuse 
of  National  Defence,  that  was  put  on  its  feet  in  five 
sees  !  "  murmured  Tirette ;  "  he'd  keep  us  going  with 
them  till  Doomsday." 

"  You  say  there  are  a  hundred  thousand  of  them, 
flea-bite,"  chaffed  Barque.  "  Well,  in  1914 — do  you 
hear  me  ? — Millerand,  the  War  Minister,  said  to  the 
M.P.'s,  'There  are  no  shirkers.'' 

"  Millerand !  "  growled  Volpatte.  "  I  tell  you,  I  don't 
know  the  man ;  but  if  he  said  that,  he's  a  dirty  sloven, 
sure  enough  !  " 

*  #  -H-  *  #  # 

"  One  is  always,"  said  Bertrand,  "  a  shirker  to  some 
one  else." 

"  That's  true ;  no  matter  what  you  call  yourself,  you'll 
always — always — find  worse  blackguards  and  better 
blackguards  than  yourself." 

"  All  those  that  never  go  up  to  the  trenches,  or  those 
who  never  go  into  the  first  line,  and  even  those  who  only 
go  there  now  and  then,  they're  shirkers,  if  you  like  to 
call  'em  so,  and  you'd  see  how  many  there  are  if  they 
only  gave  stripes  to  the  real  fighters." 

"  There  are  two  hundred  and  fifty  to  each  regiment 
of  two  battalions,"  said  Cocon. 

"  There  are  the  orderlies,  and  a  bit  since  there  were 
even  the  servants  of  the  adjutants." — "  The  cooks  and 
the  under-cooks." — "  The  sergeant-majors,  and  the 
quartermaster-sergeants,  as  often  as  not." — "  The  mess 
corporals  and  the  mess  fatigues . ' ' — ' '  Some  office-props  and 
the  guard  of  the  colours." — "  The  baggage-masters." — 
"  The  drivers,  the  labourers,  and  all  the  section,  with  all 
its  non-coms.,  and  even  the  sappers." — "  The  cyclists." — 
"  Not  all  of  them." — "  Nearly  all  the  Red  Cross  service." 
— "  Not  the  stretcher-bearers,  of  course  ;  for  they've  not 
only  got  a  devilish  rotten  job,  but  they  live  with  the 
companies,  and  when  attacks  are  on  they  charge  with 
their  stretchers;  but  the  hospital  attendants." 


THE  ANGER  OF  VOLPATTE      123 

"  Nearly  all  parsons,  especially  at  the  rear.  For, 
you  know,  parsons  with  knapsacks  on,  I  haven't  seen  a 
devil  of  a  lot  of  'em,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Nor  me  either.     In  the  papers,  but  not  here." 

"  There  are  some,  it  seems." — "  Ah  !  " 

"Anyway,  the  common  soldier's  taken  something 
on  in  this  war." 

"  There  are  others  that  are  in  the  open.  We're  not 
the  only  ones." 

"  We  are  !  "  said  Tulacque,  sharply;  "  we're  almost 
the  only  ones  !  " 

He  added,  "  You  may  say — I  know  well  enough  what 
you'll  tell  me — that  it  was  the  motor  lorries  and  the 
heavy  artillery  that  brought  it  off  at  Verdun.  It's 
true,  but  they've  got  a  soft  job  all  the  same  by  the  side 
of  us.  We're  always  in  danger,  against  their  once,  and 
we've  got  the  bullets  and  the  bombs,  too,  that  they 
haven't.  The  heavy  artillery  reared  rabbits  near  their 
dug-outs,  and  they've  been  making  themselves  omelettes 
for  eighteen  months.  We  are  really  in  danger.  Those 
that  only  get  a  bit  of  it,  or  only  once,  aren't  in  it  at  all. 
Otherwise,  everybody  would  be.  The  nursemaid  stroll- 
ing the  streets  of  Paris  would  be,  too,  since  there  are 
the  Taubes  and  the  Zeppelins,  as  that  pudding-head 
said  that  the  pal  was  talking  about  just  now." 

"  In  the  first  expedition  to  the  Dardanelles,  there  was 
actually  a  chemist  wounded  by  a  shell.  You  don't 
believe  me,  but  it's  true  all  the  same — an  officer  with 
green  facings,  wounded  !  " 

"  That's  chance,  as  I  wrote  to  Mangouste,  driver  of  a 
remount  horse  for  the  section,  that  got  wounded — but 
it  was  done  by  a  motor  lorry." 

"  That's  it,  it's  like  that.  After  all,  a  bomb  can 
tumble  down  on  a  pavement,  in  Paris  or  in  Bordeaux." 

"  Oui,  oui  /  so  it's  too  easy  to  say,  '  Don't  let's  make 
distinctions  in  danger  !  '  Wait  a  bit.  Since  the  begin- 
ning, there  are  some  of  those  others  who've  got  killed 
by  an  unlucky  Chance  ;  among  us  there  are  some  that  are 
still  alive  by  a  lucky  chance.  It  isn't  the  same  thing, 


124  UNDER  FIRE 

that,   seeing  that  when   you're   dead,  it's  for   a  long 
time." 

'  Yes,"  says  Tirette,  "  but  you're  getting  too  venom- 
ous with  your  stories  of  shirkers.  As  long  as  we  can't 
help  it,  it's  time  to  turn  over.  I'm  thinking  of  a  retired 
forest-ranger  at  Cherey,  where  we  were  last  month,  who 
went  about  the  streets  of  the  town  spying  everywhere 
to  rout  out  some  civilian  of  military  age,  and  he  smelled 
out  the  dodgers  like  a  mastiff.  Behold  him  pulling  up 
in  front  of  a  sturdy  goodwife  that  had  a  moustache, 
and  he  only  sees  her  moustache,  so  he  bullyrags  her — 
'  Why  aren't  you  at  the  front,  you  ?  ' 

"  For  my  part,"  says  Pepin,  "  I  don't  fret  myself 
about  the  shirkers  or  the  semi-shirkers,  it's  wasting  one's 
time  ;  but  where  they  get  on  my  nerves,  it's  when  they 
swank.  I'm  of  Volpatte's  opinion.  Let  'em  shirk,  good, 
that's  human  nature;  but  afterwards,  they  shouldn't 
say,  '  I've  been  a  soldier.'  Take  the  engages,1  for 
instance " 

"  That  depends  on  the  engages.  Those  who  have 
offered  for  the  infantry  without  conditions,  I  look  up  to 
those  men  as  much  as  to  those  that  have  got  killed ;  but 
the  engages  in  the  departments  or  special  arms,  even  in 
the  heavy  artillery,  they  begin  to  get  my  back  up.  We 
know  'em  !  When  they're  doing  the  agreeable  in  their 
social  circle,  they'll  say,  '  I've  offered  for  the  war.' — 
'  Ah,  wrhat  a  fine  thing  you  have  done  ;  of  your  own  free 
will  you  have  defied  the  machine-guns  !  ' — '  Well,  yes, 
madame  la  marquise,  I'm  built  like  that  !  '  Eh,  get  out 
of  it,  humbug  !  " 

"  Oui,  it's  always  the  same  tale.  They  wouldn't  be 
able  to  say  in  the  drawing-rooms  afterwards,  '  Tenez, 
here  I  am  ;  look  at  me  for  a  voluntary  engage  !  ' 

"  I  know  a  gentleman  who  enlisted  in  the  aerodromes. 
He  had  a  fine  uniform — he'd  have  done  better  to  offer 
for  the  Opera-Comique.  What  am  I  saying — '  he'd 

1  Soldiers  voluntarily  enlisted  in  ordinary  times  for  three,  four 
or  five  years.  Those  enlisted  for  four  or  five  years  have  the  right 
to  choose  their  arm  of  the  service,  subject  to  conditions. — Tr. 


THE  ANGER  OF  VOLPATTE       125 

have  done  better  ?  '  He'd  have  done  a  damn  sight 
better,  oui.  At  least  he'd  have  made  other  people 
laugh  honestly,  instead  of  ma'king  them  laugh  with  the 
spleen  in  it." 

"  They're  a  lot  of  cheap  china,  fresh  painted,  and 
plastered  with  ornaments  and  all  sorts  of  falderals,  but 
they  don't  go  under  fire." 

"  If  there'd  only  been  people  like  those,  the  Boches 
would  be  at  Bayonne." 

"  When  war's  on,  one  must  risk  his  skin,  eh, 
corporal  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bertrand,  "  there  are  some  times  when 
duty  and  danger  are  exactly  the  same  thing ;  when  the 
country,  when  justice  and  liberty  are  in  danger,  it  isn't 
in  taking  shelter  that  you  defend  them.  On  the  con- 
trary, war  means  danger  of  death  and  sacrifice  of  life 
for  everybody,  for  everybody ;  no  one  is  sacred.  One 
must  go  for  it,  upright,  right  to  the  end,  and  not  pretend 
to  do  it  in  a  fanciful  uniform.  These  services  at  the 
bases,  and  they're  necessary,  must  be  automatically 
guaranteed  by  the  really  weak  and  the  realty  old." 

"  Besides,  there  are  too  many  rich  and  influential 
people  who  have  shouted,  '  Let  us  save  France  ! — and 
begin  by  saving  ourselves  !  '  On  the  declaration  of  war, 
there  was  a  big  rush  to  get  out  of  it,  that's  what  there 
was,  and  the  strongest  succeeded.  I  noticed  myself,  in 
my  little  corner,  it  was  especially  those  that  jawed  most 
about  patriotism  previously.  Anyway,  as  the  others 
were  saying  just  now,  if  they  get  into  a  funk-hole,  the 
worst  filthiness  they  can  do  is  to  make  people  believe 
they've  run  risks.  'Cos  those  that  have  really  run  risks, 
they  deserve  the  same  respect  as  the  dead." 

"Well,  what  then?  It's  always  like  that,  old  man; 
you  can't  change  human  nature." 

"It  can't  be  helped.  Grouse,  complain?  Tiens! 
talking  about  complaining,  did  you  know  Margoulin  ?  " 

"  Margoulin  ?  The  good  sort  that  was  with  us,  that 
they  left  to  die  at  le  Grassier  because  they  thought  he 
was  dead  ?  " 


126  UNDER  FIRE 

"  Well,  he  wanted  to  make  a  complaint.  Every 
day  he  talked  about  protesting  against  all  those  things 
to  the  captain  and  the  commandant.  He'd  say  after 
breakfast,  '  I'll  go  and  say  it  as  sure  as  that  pint  of 
wine's  there/  And  a  minute  later,  '  If  I  don't  speak, 
there's  never  a  pint  of  wine  there  at  all.'  And  if  you 
were  passing  later  you'd  hear  him  again,  '  Tiens!  is 
that  a  pint  of  wine  there  ?  Well,  you'll  see  if  I  don't 
speak  !  '  Result — he  said  nothing  at  all.  You'll  say, 
'  But  he  got  killed.'  True,  but  previously  he  had  God's 
own  tune  to  do  it  two  thousand  times  if  he'd  dared." 

"  All  that,  it  makes  me  ill,"  growled  Blaire,  sullen, 
but  with  a  flash  of  fury. 

"  We  others,  we've  seen  nothing — seeing  that  we 
don't  see  anything — but  if  we  did  see !  " 

"  Old  chap,"  Volpatte  cried,  "  those  depots — take 
notice  of  what  I  saj' — you'd  have  to  turn  the  Seine,  the 
Garonne,  the  Rhone  and  the  Loire  into  them  to  clean 
them.  In  the  interval,  they're  living,  and  they  live 
well,  and  they  go  to  doze  peacefully  every  night,  every 
night  I  " 

The  soldier  held  his  peace.  In  the  distance  he  saw 
the  night  as  they  would  pass  it — cramped  up,  trembling 
with  vigilance  in  the  deep  darkness,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  listening-hole  whose  ragged  jaws  showed  in  black 
outline  all  around  whenever  a  gun  hurled  its  dawn  into 
the  sky. 

Bitterly  said  Cocon :  "All  that,  it  doesn't  give  you 
any  desire  to  die." 

'  Yes,  it  does,"  some  one  replies  tranquilly.  "  Yes, 
it  does.  Don't  exaggerate,  old  kipper-skin." 


X 

ARGOVAL 

THE  twilight  of  evening  was  coming  near  from  the 
direction  of  the  country,  and  a  gentle  breeze,  soft  as  a 
whisper,  came  with  it. 

In  the  houses  alongside  this  rural  way — a  main  road, 
garbed  for  a  few  paces  like  a  main  street — the  rooms 
whose  pallid  windows  no  longer  fed  them  with  the 
limpidity  of  space  found  their  own  light  from  lamps  and 
candles,  so  that  the  evening  left  them  and  went  outside, 
and  one  saw  light  and  darkness  gradually  changing 
places. 

On  the  edge  of  the  village,  towards  the  fields,  some 
unladen  soldiers  were  wandering,  facing  the  breeze. 
We  were  ending  the  day  in  peace,  and  enjoying  that  idle 
ease  whose  happiness  one  only  realises  when  one  is  really 
weary.  It  was  fine  weather,  we  were  at  the  beginning 
of  rest,  and  dreaming  about  it.  Evening  seemed  to 
make  our  faces  bigger  before  it  darkened  them,  and  they 
shone  with  the  serenity  of  nature. 

Sergeant  Suilhard  came  to  me,  took  my  arm,  and  led 
me  away.  "  Come,"  he  said,  "  and  I'll  show  you  some- 
thing." ' 

The  approaches  to  the  village  abounded  in  rows  of  tall 
and  tranquil  trees,  and  we  followed  them  along.  Under 
the  pressure  of  the  breeze  their  vast  verdure  yielded  from 
time  to  time  in  slow  majestic  movements. 

Suilhard  went  in  front  of  me.  He  led  me  into  a  deep 
lane,  which  twisted  about  between  high  banks ;  and  on 
each  side  grew  a  border  of  bushes,  whose  tops  met  each 
other.  For  some  moments  we  walked  in  a  bower  of 
tender  green.  A  last  gleam  of  light,  falling  aslant  across 

127 


128  UNDER  FIRE 

the  lane,  made  points  of  bright  yellow  among  the  foliage, 
and  round  as  gold  coins.  "  This  is  pretty,"  I  said. 

He  said  nothing,  but  looked  aside  and  hard.  Then 
he  stopped.  "  It  must  be  there." 

He  made  "me  climb  up  a  bit  of  a  track  'to  a  field,  a 
great  quadrangle  within  tall  trees,  and  full  of  the  scent 
of  hay. 

*  Tim$  I"  I  said,  looking  at  the  ground,  ''it's  all 
trampled  here ;  there's  been  something  to  do." 

"  Come,"  said  Suilhard  to  me.  He  led  me  into  the 
field,  not  far  from  its  gate.  There  was  a  group  of  soldiers 
there,  talking  in  low  voices.  My  companion  stretched 
out  his  hand.  "  It's  there,"  he  said. 

A  very  short  post,  hardly  a  yard  high,  was  im- 
planted a  few  paces  from  the  hedge,  composed  just 
there  of  young  trees.  "It  was  there,"  he  said,  "that 
they  shot  a  soldier  of  the  204th  this  morning.  They 
planted  that  post  in  the  night.  They  brought  the 
chap  here  at  dawn,  and  these  are  the  fellows  of  his 
squad  who  killed  him.  He  tried  to  dodge  the  trenches. 
During  relief  he  stayed  behind,  and  then  went  quietly 
off  to  quarters.  He  did  nothing  else ;  they  meant,  no 
doubt,  to  make  an  example  of  him." 

We  came  near  to  the  conversation  of  the  others. 
"  No,  no,  not  at  all,"  said  one.  "  He  wasn't  a  ruffian, 
he  wasn't  one  of  those  toughs  that  we  all  know.  We  all 
enlisted  together.  He  was  a  decent  sort,  like  ourselves, 
no  more,  no  less — a  bit  funky,  that's  all.  He  was  in 
the  front  line  from  the  beginning,  he  was,  and  I've 
never  seen  him  boozed,  I  haven't." 

"  Yes,  but  all  must  be  told.  Unfortunately  for  him, 
there  was  a  '  previous  conviction.'  There  were  two,  you 
know,  that  did  the  trick — the  other  got  two  years.  But 
Cajard,1  because  of  the  sentence  he  got  in  civil  life, 
couldn't  benefit  by  extenuating  circumstances.  He'd 
done  some  giddy-goat  trick  in  civil  life,  when  he  was 
drunk." 

1  I  have  altered  the  name  of  this  soldier  as  well  as  that  of  the 
village.— H.  B. 


ARGOVAL  129 

"  You  can  see  a  little  blood  on  the  ground  if  you  look," 
said  a  stooping  soldier. 

"  There  was  the  whole  ceremonial,"  another  went  on, 
"  from  A  to  Z — the  colonel  on  horseback,  the  degrada- 
tion; then  they  tied  him  to  the  little  post,  the  cattle- 
stoup.  He  had  to  be  forced  to  kneel  or  sit  on  the  ground 
with  a  similar  post." 

"  It's  past  understanding,"  said  a  third,  after  a 
silence,  "  if  it  wasn't  for  the  example  the  sergeant  spoke 
about." 

On  the  post  the  soldiers  had  scrawled  inscriptions  and 
protests.  A  croix  de  guerre,  cut  clumsily  of  wood,  was 
nailed  to  it,  and  read  :  "A.  Cajard,  mobilised  in  August, 
1914,  in  gratitude  to  France." 

Returning  to  quarters  I  met  Volpatte,  still  surrounded 
and  talking.  He  was  relating  some  new  anecdotes  of 
his  journey  among  the  happy  ones. 


K 


XI 

THE    DOG 

THE  weather  was  appalling.  Water  and  wind 
attacked  the  passers-by;  riddled,  flooded,  and  up- 
heaved the  roads. 

I  was  returning  from  fatigue  to  our  quarters  at  the 
far  end  of  the  village.  The  landscape  that  morning 
showed  dirty  yellow  through  the  solid  rain,  and  the 
sky  was  dark  as  a  slated  roof.  The  downpour  flogged 
the  horse-trough  as  with  birchen  rods.  Along  the 
walls,  human  shapes  went  in  shrinking  files,  stooping, 
abashed,  splashing. 

In  spite  of  the  rain  and  the  cold  and  bitter  wind,  a 
crowd  had  gathered  in  front  of  the  door  of  the  barn 
where  we  were  lodging.  All  close  together  and  back  to 
back,  the  men  seemed  from  a  distance  like  a  great  mov- 
ing sponge.  Those  who  could  see,  over  shoulders  and 
between  heads,  opened  their  eyes  wide  and  said,  "  He 
has  a  nerve,  the  boy  1  "  Then  the  inquisitive  ones  broke 
away,  with  red  noses  and  streaming  faces,  into  the 
downpour  that  lashed  and  the  blast  that  bit,  and  letting 
the  hands  fall  that  they  had  upraised  in  surprise,  they 
plunged  them  in  their  pockets. 

In  the  centre,  and  running  with  rain,  abode  the 
cause  of  the  gathering — Fouillade,  bare  to  the  waist 
and  washing  himself  in  abundant  water.  Thin  as  an 
insect,  working  his  long  slender  arms  in  riotous  frenzy, 
he  soaped  and  splashed  his  head,  neck,  and  chest, 
down  to  the  upstanding  gridirons  of  his  sides.  Over 
his  funnel-shaped  cheeks  the  brisk  activity  had  spread 
a  flaky  beard  like  snow,  and  piled  on  the  top  of  his  head  a 
greasy  fleece  that  the  rain  was  puncturing  with  little  holes. 

130 


THE  DOG  131 

By  way  of  a  tub,  the  patient  was  using  three  mess- 
tins  which  he  had  filled  with  water — no  one  knew  how — 
in  a  village  where  there  was  none ;  and  as  there  was 
no  clean  spot  anywhere  to  put. anything  down  in  that 
universal  streaming  of  earth  and  sky,  he  thrust  his 
towel  into  the  waistband  of  his  trousers,  while  the 
soap  went  back  into  his  pocket  every  time  he  used  it. 

They  who  still  remained  wondered  at  this  heroic 
gesticulation  in  the  face  of  adversity,  and  said  again, 
as  they  wagged  their  heads,  "  It's  a  disease  of  cleanliness 
he's  got." 

"  You  know  he's  going  to  be  carpeted,  they  say,  for 
that  affair  of  the  shell-hole  with  Volpatte."  And  they 
mixed  the  two  exploits  together  in  a  muddled  way, 
that  of  the  shell-hole,  and  the  present,  and  looked  on 
him  as  the  hero  of  the  moment,  while  he  puffed,  sniffled, 
grunted,  spat,  and  tried  to  dry  himself  under  the 
celestial  shower-bath  with  rapid  rubbing  and  as  a  measure 
of  deception  ;  then  at  last  he  resumed  his  clothe 
*****  s. 

After  his  wash,  Fouillade  feels  cold.  He  turns  about 
and  stands  in  the  doorway  of  the  barn  that  shelters  us. 
The  arctic  blast  discolours  and  disparages  his  long  face, 
so  hollow  and  sunburned ;  it  draws  tears  from  his  eyes, 
and  scatters  them  on  the  cheeks  once  scorched  by  the 
mistral;  his  nose,  too,  weeps  increasingly. 

Yielding  to  the  ceaseless  bite  of  the  wind  that  grips 
his  ears  in  spite  of  the  muffler  knotted  round  his  head, 
and  his  calves  in  spite  of  the  yellow  puttees  with  which 
his  cockerel  legs  are  enwound,  he  re-enters  the  barn, 
but  comes  out  of  it  again  at  once,  rolling  ferocious 
eyes,  and  muttering  oaths  with  the  accent  one  hears 
in  that  corner  of  the  land,  over  six  hundred  miles  from 
here,  whence  he  was  driven  by  war. 

So  he  stands  outside,  erect,  more  truly  excited  than 
ever  before  in  these  northern  scenes.  And  the  wind 
comes  and  steals  into  him,  and  comes  again  roughly, 
shaking  and  maltreating  his  scarecrow's  slight  and 
fleshless  figure. 


132  UNDER  FIRE 

Ye  gods  !  It  is  almost  uninhabitable,  the  barn  they 
have  assigned  to  us  to  live  in  during  this  period  of  rest. 
It  is  a  collapsing  refuge,  gloomy  and  leaky,  confined  as 
a  well.  One  half  of  it  is  under  water — we  see  rats 
swimming  in  it — and  the  men  are  crowded  in  the  other 
half.  The  walls,  composed  of  laths  stuck  together 
with  dried  mud,  are  cracked,  sunken,  holed  in  all  their 
circuit,  and  extensively  broken  through  above.  The 
night  we  got  here — until  the  morning — we  plugged  as 
well  as  we  could  the  openings  within  reach,  by  insert- 
ing leafy  branches  and  hurdles.  But  the  higher  holes, 
and  those  in  the  roof,  still  gaped  and  always.  When 
dawn  hovers  there,  weakling  and  early,  the  wind  for 
contrast  rushes  in  and  blows  round  every  side  with  all 
its  strength,  and  the  squad  endures  the  hustling  of  an 
everlasting  draught. 

When  we  are  there,  we  remain  upright  in  the  ruined 
obscurity,  groping,  shivering,  complaining. 

Fouillade,  who  has  come  in  once  more,  goaded  by 
the  cold,  regrets  his  ablutions.  He  has  pains  in  his 
loins  and  back.  He  wants  something  to  do,  but  what  ? 

Sit  down?  Impossible;  it  is  too  dirty  inside  there. 
The  ground  and  the  paving-stones  are  plastered  with 
mud;  the  straw  scattered  for  our  sleeping  is  soaked 
through,  by  the  water  that  comes  through  the  holes 
and  by  the  boots  that  wipe  themselves  with  it.  Besides, 
if  you  sit  down,  you  freeze  ;  and  if  you  lie  on  the  straw, 
you  are  troubled  by  the  smell  of  manure,  and  sickened 
by  the  vapours  of  ammonia.  Fouillade  contents  him- 
self by  looking  at  his  place,  and  yawning  wide  enough 
to  dislocate  his  long  jaw,  further  lengthened  by  a 
goatee  beard  where  you  would  see  white  hairs  if  the 
daylight  were  really  daylight. 

"  The  other  pals  and  boys,"  said  Marthereau,  "  they're 
no  better  off  than  we  are.  After  breakfast  I  went  to 
see  a  jail-bird  of  the  nth  on  the  farm  near  the  hospital. 
You've  to  clamber  over  a  wall  by  a  ladder  that's  too 
short — talk  about  a  scissor-cut !  "  says  Marthereau,  who 
is  short  in  the  leg;  "  and  when  once  you're  in  the 


THE  DOG  133 

hen-run  and  rabbit-hutch  you're  shoved  and  poked  by 
everybody  and  a  nuisance  to  'em  all.  You  don't  know 
where  to  put  your  pasties  down.  I  vamoosed  from 
there,  and  sharp." 

"  For  my  part,"  says  Cocon,  "  I  wanted  to  go  to  the 
blacksmith's  when  we'd  got  quit  of  grubbing,  to  imbibe 
something  hot,  and  pay  for  it.  Yesterday  he  was 
selling  coffee,  but  some  bobbies  called  there  this  morning, 
so  the  good  man's  got  the  shakes,  and  he's  locked  his 
door." 

Lamuse  has  tried  to  clean  his  rifle.  But  one  cannot 
clean  his  rifle  here,  even  if  he  squats  on  the  ground  near 
the  door,  nor  even  if  he  takes  away  the  sodden  tent- 
cloth,  hard  and  icy,  which  hangs  across  the  doorway 
like  a  stalactite  ;  it  is  too  dark.  "  And  then,  old  chap, 
if  you  let  a  screw  fall,  you  may  as  well  hang  yourself  as 
try  to  find  it,  'specially  when  your  fists  are  frozen  silly." 

"  As  for  me,  I  ought  to  be  sewing  some  things,  but — 
what  cheer  !  " 

One  alternative  remains — to  stretch  oneself  on  the 
straw,  covering  the  head  with  handkerchief  or  towel 
to  isolate  it  from  the  searching  stench  of  fermenting 
straw,  and  sleep.  Fouillade,  master  of  his  time  to-day, 
being  on  neither  guard  nor  fatigues,  decides.  He  lights 
a  taper  to  seek  among  his  belongings,  and  unwinds  the 
coils  of  his  comforter,  and  we  see  his  emaciated  shape, 
sculptured  in  black  relief,  folding  and  refolding  it. 

"  Potato  fatigue,  inside  there,  my  little  lambs  !  "  a 
sonorous  voice  bellows  at  the  door.  The  hooded  shape 
from  which  it  comes  is  Sergeant  Henriot.  He  is  a 
malignant  sort  of  simpleton,  and  though  all  the  while 
joking  in  clumsy  sympathy  he  supervises  the  evacua- 
tion of  quarters  with  a  sharp  eye  for  the  evasive  malin- 
gerer. Outside,  on  the  streaming  road  in  the  perpetual 
rain,  the  second  section  is  scattered,  also  summoned 
and  driven  to  work  by  the  adjutant.  The  two  sections 
mingle  together.  We  climb  the  street  and  the  hillock 
of  clayey  soil  where  the  travelling  kitchen  is  smoking. 

"  Now  then,  my  lads,  get  on  with  it ;  it  isn't  a  long 


134  UNDER  FIRE 

job  when  everybody  sets  to Come — what  have 

you  got  to  grumble  about,  you?  That  does  no  good." 

Twenty  minutes  later  we  return  at  a  trot.  As  we 
grope  about  in  the  barn,  we  cannot  touch  anything  but 
what  is  sodden  and  cold,  and  the  sour  smell  of  wet 
animals  is  added  to  the  vapour  of  the  liquid  manure 
that  our  beds  contain. 

We  gather  again,  standing,  around  the  props  that 
hold  the  barn  up,  and  around  the  rills  that  fall  ver- 
tically from  the  holes  in  the  roof — faint  columns  which 
rest  on  vague  bases  of  splashing  water.  "  Here  we  are 
again  !  "  we  cry. 

Two  lumps  in  turn  block  the  doorway,  soaked  with 
the  rain  that  drains  from  them — Lamuse  and  Barque, 
who  have  been  in  quest  of  a  brasier,  and  now  return 
from  the  expedition  empty-handed,  sullen  and  vicious. 
"  Not  a  shadow  of  a  fire-bucket,  and  what's  more,  no 
wood  or  coal  either,  not  for  a  fortune."  It  is  impossible 
to  have  any  fire.  "  If  I  can't  get  any,  no  one  can,"  says 
Barque,  with  a  pride  which  a  hundred  exploits  justify. 

We  stay  motionless,  or  move  slowly  in  the  little 
space  we  have,  aghast  at  so  much  misery.  "  Whose 
is  the  paper?  " 

"It's  mine,"  says  Becuwe. 

"  What  does  it  say?  Ah,  zut,  one  can't  read  in  this 
darkness  !  " 

"  It  says  they've  done  everything  necessary  now  for 
the  soldiers,  to  keep  them  warm  in  the  trenches.  They've 
got  all  they  want,  and  blankets  and  shirts  and  brasiers 
and  fire-buckets  and  bucketsful  of  coal;  and  that  it's 
like  that  in  the  first-line  trenches." 

"Ah,  damnation !  "  growl  some  of  the  poor  prisoners 
of  the  barn,  and  they  shake  their  fists  at  the  emptiness 
without  and  at  the  newspaper  itself. 

But  Fouillade  has  lost  interest  in  what  they  say. 
He  has  bent  his  long  Don  Quixote  carcase  down  in  the 
shadow,  and  outstretched  the  lean  neck  that  looks  as 
if  it  were  braided  with  violin  strings.  There  is  some- 
thing on  the  ground  that  attracts  him. 


THE  DOG  135 

It  is  Labri,  the  other  squad's  dog,  an  uncertain  sort 
of  mongrel  sheep-dog,  with  a  lopped  tail,  curled  up  on 
a  liny  litter  of  straw-dust.  Fouillade  looks  at  Labri, 
and  Labri  at  him.  Becuwe  comes  up  and  says,  with 
the  intonation  of  the  Lille  district,  "  He  won't  eat  his 
food;  the  dog  isn't  well.  Hey,  Labri,  what's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  There's  your  bread  and  meat ;  eat 
it  up;  it's  good  when  it's  in  your  bucket.  He's  poorly. 
One  of  these  mornings  we  shall  find  him  dead." 

Labri  is  not  happy.  The  soldier  to  whom  he  is 
entrusted  is  hard  on  him,  and  usually  ill-treats  him — 
when  he  takes  any  notice  of  him  at  all.  The  animal  is 
tied  up  all  day.  He  is  cold  and  ill  and  left  to  himself. 
He  only  exists.  From  time  to  time,  when  there  is 
movement  going  on  around  him,  he  has  hopes  of  going 
out,  rises  and  stretches  himself,  and  bestirs  his  tail  to 
incipient  demonstration.  But  he  is  disillusioned,  and 
lies  down  again,  gazing  past  his  nearly  full  mess-tin. 

He  is  weary,  and  disgusted  with  life.  Even  if  he 
has  escaped  the  bullet  or  bomb  to  which  he  is  as  much 
exposed  as  we,  he  will  end  by  dying  here.  Fouillade 
puts  his  thin  hand  on  the  dog's  head,  and  it  gazes 
at  him  again.  Their  two  glances  are  alike — the  only 
difference  is  that  one  comes  from  above  and  the  other 
from  below. 

Fouillade  sits  down  also — the  worse  for  him  ! — in  a 
corner,  his  hands  covered  by  the  folds  of  his  greatcoat, 
his  long  legs  doubled  up  like  a  folding  bed.  He  is 
dreaming,  his  eyes  closed  under  their  bluish  lids ;  there 
is  something  that  he  sees  again.  It  is  one  of  those 
moments  when  the  country  from  which  he  is  divided 
assumes  in  the  distance  the  charms  of  reality — the 
perfumes  and  colours  of  1'Herault,  the  streets  of  Cette. 
He  sees  so  plainly  and  so  near  that  he  hears  the  noise 
of  the  shallops  in  the  Canal  du  Midi,  and  the  unloading 
at  the  docks ;  and  their  call  to  him  is  distinctly  clear. 

Above  the  road  where  the  scent  of  thyme  and  immor- 
telles is  so  strong  that  it  is  almost  a  taste  in  the  mouth, 
in  the  heart  of  the  sunshine  whose  winging  shafts  stir 


136  UNDER  FIRE 

the  air  into  a  warmed  and  scented  breeze,  on  Mont 
St.  Clair,  blossoms  and  flourishes  the  home  of  his  folks. 
Up  there,  one  can  see  with  the  same  glance  where  the 
Lake  of  Thau,  which  is  green  like  glass,  joins  hands 
with  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  which  is  azure ;  and  some- 
times one  can  make  out  as  well,  in  the  depths  of  the 
indigo  sky,  the  carven  phantoms  of  the  Pyrenees. 

There  was  he  born,  there  he  grew  up,  happy  and 
free.  There  he  played,  on  the  golden  or  ruddy  ground; 
played — even — at  soldiers.  The  eager  joy  of  wielding 
a  wooden  sabre  flushed  the  cheeks  now  sunken  and 
seamed.  He  opens  his  eyes,  looks  about  him,  shakes 
his  head,  and  falls  upon  regret  for  the  days  when  glory 
and  war  to  him  were  pure,  lofty,  and  sunny  things. 

The  man  puts  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  to  retain  the 
vision  within.  Nowadays,  it  is  different. 

It  was  up  there  in  the  same  place,  later,  that  he  came 
to  know  Clemence.  She  was  just  passing,  the  first 
time,  sumptuous  with  sunshine,  and  so  fair  that  the 
loose  sheaf  of  straw  she  carried  in  her  arms  seemed  to 
him  nut-brown  by  contrast.  The  second  time,  she  had 
a  friend  with  her,  and  they  both  stopped  to  watch  him. 
He  heard  them  whispering,  and  turned  towards  them. 
Seeing  themselves  discovered,  the  two  young  women 
made  off,  with  a  sibilance  of  skirts,  and  giggles  like  the 
cry  of  a  partridge. 

And  it  was  there,  too,  that  he  and  she  together  set 
up  their  home.  Over  its  front  travels  a  vine,  which 
he  coddled  under  a  straw  hat,  whatever  the  season. 
By  the  garden  gate  stands  the  rose-tree  that  he  knows 
so  well — it  never  used  its  thorns  except  to  try  to  hold 
him  back  a  little  as  he  went  by. 

Will  he  return  again  to  it  all?  Ah,  he  has  looked 
too  deeply  into  the  profundity  of  the  past  not  to  see 
the  future  in  appalling  accuracy.  He  thinks  of  the 
regiment,  decimated  at  each  shift ;  of  the  big  knocks 
and  hard  he  has  had  and  will  have,  of  sickness,  and  of 
wear 

He  gets  up  and  snorts,  as  though  to  shake  off  what 


THE  DOG  137 

was  and  what  will  be.  He  is  back  in  the  middle  of  the 
gloom,  and  is  frozen  and  swept  by  the  wind,  among 
the  scattered  and  dejected  men  who  blindly  await  the 
evening.  He  is  back  in  the  present,  and  he  is  shivering 
still. 

Two  paces  of  his  long  legs  make  him  butt  into  a 
group  that  is  talking—by  way  of  diversion  or  consolation 
— of  good  cheer. 

"  At  my  place,"  says  one,  "  they  make  enormous 
loaves,  round  ones,  big  as  cart-wheels  they  are ! " 
And  the  man  amuses  himself  by  opening  his  eyes  wide, 
so  that  he  can  see  the  loaves  of  the  homeland. 

"  Where  I  come  from,"  interposes  the  poor  Southerner, 
"  holiday  feasts  last  so  long  that  the  bread  that's  new 
at  the  beginning  is  stale  at  the  end  !  " 

"  There's  a  jolly  wine — it  doesn't  look  much,  that 
little  wine  where  I  come  from ;  but  if  it  hasn't  fifteen 
degrees  of  alcohol  it  hasn't  anything  !  " 

Fouillade  speaks  then  of  a  red  wine  which  is  almost 
violet,  which  stands  dilution  as  well  as  if  it  had  been 
brought  into  the  world  to  that  end. 

"  We've  got  the  juranfon  wine,"  said  a  Bearnais,  "  the 
real  thing,  not  what  they  sell  you  for  juranpon,  which 
comes  from  Paris ;  indeed,  I  know  one  of  the  makers." 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,"  said  Fouillade,  "  in  our  country 
we've  got  muscatels  of  every  sort,  all  the  colours  of  the 
rainbow,  like  patterns  of  silk  stuff.  You  come  home 
with  me  some  time,  and  every  day  you  shall  taste  a 
nonsuch,  my  boy." 

"  Sounds  like  a  wedding  feast,"  said  the  grateful 
soldier. 

So  it  comes  about  that  Fouillade  is  agitated  by  the 
vinous  memories  into  which  he  has  plunged,  which 
recall  to  him  as  well  the  dear  perfume  of  garlic  on  that 
far-off  table.  The  vapours  of  the  blue  wine  in  big 
bottles,  and  the  liqueur  wines  so  delicately  varied, 
mount  to  his  head  amid  the  sluggish  and  mournful 
storm  that  fills  the  barn. 

Suddenly  he  calls  to  mind  that  there  is  settled  in  the 


138  UNDER  FIRE 

village  where  they  are  quartered  a  tavern-keeper  who 
is  a  native  of  Beziers,  called  Magnac.  Magnac  had  said 
to  him,  "  Come  and  see  me,  mon  camarade,  one  of  these 
mornings,  and  well  drink  some  wine  from  down  there, 
we  will!  I've  several  bottles  of  it,  and  you  shall 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

This  sudden  prospect  dazzles  Fouillade.  Through 
all  his  length  runs  a  thrill  of  delight,  as  though  he  had 
found  the  way  of  salvation.  Drink  the  wine  of  the 
South — of  his  own  particular  South,  even — drink  much 
of  it — it  would  be  so  good  to  see  life  rosy  again,  if  only 
for  a  day  !  Ah  yes,  he  wants  wine ;.  and  he  gets  drunk 
in  a  dream. 

But  as  he  goes  out  he  collides  at  the  entry  with 
Corporal  Brc^er,  who  is  running  down  the  street  like 
a  pedlar,  and  shouting  at  every  opening,  "  Morning 
parade  !  " 

The  company  assembles  and  forms  in  squares  on  the 
sticky  mound  where  the  travelling  kitchen  is  sending 
soot  into  the  rain.  "  I'll  go  and  have  a  drink  after 
parade,"  says  Fouillade  to  himself. 

And  he  listens  listlessly,  full  of  his  plan,  to  the  read- 
ing of  the  report.  But  carelessly  as  he  listens,  he  hears 
the  officer  read,  "It  is  absolutely  forbidden  to  leave 
quarters  before  5  p.m.  and  after  8  p.m.,"  and  he  hears 
the  captain,  without  noticing  the  murmur  that  runs 
round  the  poilus,  add  this  comment  on  the  order : 
"  This  is  Divisional  Headquarters.  However  many 
there  are  of  you,  don't  show  yourselves.  Keep  under 
cover.  If  the  General  sees  you  in  the  street,  he  will 
have  you  put  to  fatigues  at  once.  He  must  not  see  a 
single  soldier.  Stay  where  you  are  all  day  in  your 
quarters.  Do  what  you  like  as  long  as  no  one  sees 
you — no  one  !  " 

We  go  back  into  the  barn. 

****** 

Two  o'clock.  It  is  three  hours  yet,  and  then  it  will 
be  totally  dark,  before  one  may  risk  going  outside 
without  being  punished, 


THE  DOG  139 

Shall  we  sleep  while  waiting  ?  Fouillade  is  sleepy  no 
longer;  the  hope  of  wine  has  shaken  him  up.  And 
then,  if  one  sleeps  in  the  day,  he  will  not  sleep  at  night. 
No  !  To  lie  with  your  eyes  open  is  worse  than  a  night- 
mare. The  weather  gets  worse  ;  wind  and  rain  increase, 
without  and  within. 

Then  what  ?  If  one  may  not  stand  still,  nor  sit 
down,  nor  lie  down,  nor  go  for  a  stroll,  nor  work — 
what  ? 

Deepening  misery  settles  on  the  party  of  benumbed 
and  tired  soldiers.  They  suffer  to  the  bone,  nor  know 
what  to  do  with  their  bodies.  "  Norn  de  Dieu,  we're 
badly  off !  "  is  the  cry  of  the  derelicts — a  lamentation, 
an  appeal  for  help. 

Then  by  instinct  they  give  themselves  up  to  the 
only  occupation  possible  to  them  in  there — to  walk  up 
and  down  on  the  spot,  and  thus  ward  off  anchylosis. 

So  they  begin  to  walk  quickly  to  and  fro  in  the 
scanty  place  that  three  strides  might  compass ;  they 
turn  about  and  cross  and  brush  each  other,  bent  for- 
ward, hands  pocketed — tramp,  tramp.  These  human 
beings  whom  the  blast  cuts  even  among  their  straw  are 
like  a  crowd  of  the  wretched  wrecks  of  cities  who  await, 
under  the  lowering  sky  of  winter,  the  opening  of  some 
charitable  institution.  But  no  door  will  open  for  them — 
unless  it  be  four  days  hence,  one  evening  at  the  end  of 
the  rest,  to  return  to  the  trenches. 

Alone  in  a  corner,  Cocon  cowers.  He  is  tormented 
by  lice ;  but  weakened  by  the  cold  and  wet  he  has 
not  the  pluck  to  change  his  linen ;  and  he  sits  there 
sullen,  unmoving — and  devoured. 

As  five  o'clock  draws  near,  in  spite  of  all,  Fouillade 
begins  again  to  intoxicate  himself  with  his  dream  of 
wine,  and  he  waits,  with  its  gleam  in  his  soul.  What 
time  is  it  ? — A  quarter  to  five. — Five  minutes  to  five. — 
Now! 

He  is  outside  in  black  night.  With  great  splashing 
skips  he  makes  his  way  towards  the  tavern  of  Magnac, 
the  generous  and  communicative  Biterrois.  Only  with 


140  UNDER  FIRE 

great  trouble  does  he  find  the  door  in  the  dark  and  the 
inky  rain.  By  God,  there  is  no  light  !  Great  God  again, 
it  is  closed  !  The  gleam  of  a  match  that  his  great  lean 
hand  covers  like  a  lamp-shade  shows  him  the  fateful 
notice — "  Out  of  Bounds."  Magnac,  guilty  of  some 
transgression,  has  been  banished  into  gloom  and  idleness  ! 

Fouillade  turns  his  back  on  the  tavern  that  has 
become  the  prison  of  its  lonely  keeper.  He  will  not 
give  up  his  dream.  He  will  go  somewhere  else  and 
have  vin  ordinaire,  and  pay  for  it,  that's  all.  He  puts 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  to  sound  his  purse ;  it  is  there. 
There  ought  to  be  thirty-seven  sous  in  it,  which  will 
not  run  to  the  wine  of  Perou,  but 

But  suddenly  he  starts,  stops  dead,  and  smites  him- 
self on  the  forehead.  His  long-drawn  face  is  contracted 
in  a  frightful  grimace,  masked  by  the  night.  No,  he 
no  longer  has  thirty-seven  sous,  fool  that  he  is  !  He 
has  forgotten  the  tin  of  sardines  that  he  bought  the 
night  before — so  disgusting  did  he  find  the  dark  macaroni 
of  the  soldiers'  mess — and  the  drinks  he  stood  to  the 
cobbler  who  put  him  some  nails  in  his  boots. 

Misery  !  There  could  not  be  more  than  thirteen  sous 
left! 

To  get  as  elevated  as  one  ought,  and  to  avenge  him- 
self on  the  life  of  the  moment,  he  would  certainly  need 
— damnation  ! — a  litre  and  a  half.  In  this  place,  a 
litre  of  red  ordinary  costs  twenty-one  sous.  It  won't  go. 

His  eyes  wander  around  him  in  the  darkness,  looking 
for  some  one.  Perhaps  there  is  a  pal  somewhere  who 
will  lend  him  money,  or  stand  him  a  litre. 

But  who — who  ?  Not  Becuwe,  he  has  only  a 
marraine*  who  sends  him  tobacco  and  note-paper 
every  fortnight.  Not  Barque,  who  would  not  toe  the 

French  soldiers  have  extensively  developed  a  system  of 
corresponding  with  French  women  whom  they  do  not  know 
from  Eve  and  whose  acquaintance  they  usually  make  through 
newspaper  advertisements.  As  typical  of  the  latter  I  copy  the 
following :  "  Officier  artilleur,  30  ans,  desire  correspondence 
discrete  avec  jeune  marraine,  femme  du  monde.  Ecrire,"  etc. 
The  "  lonely  soldier  "  movement  in  this  country  is  similar. — Tr. 


THE  DOG  141 

line;  nor  Blaire,  the  miser — he  wouldn't  understand. 
Not  Biquet,  who  seems  to  have  something  against  him ; 
nor  Pepin,  who  himself  begs,  and  never  pays,  even 
when  he  is  host.  Ah,  if  Volpatte  were  there  !  There 
is  Mesnil  Andre,  but  he  is  actually  in  debt  to  Fouillade 
on  account  of  several  drinks  round.  Corporal  .Bertrand  ? 
Following  on  a  remark  of  Fouillade 's,  Bertrand  told 
him  to  go  to  the  devil,  and  now  they  look  at  each  other 
sideways.  Farfadet  ?  Fouillade  hardly  speaks  a  word 
to  him  in  the  ordinary  way.  No,  he  feels  that  he  cannot 
ask  this  of  Farfadet.  And  then — a  thousand  thunders  ! 
— what  is  the  use  of  seeking  saviours  in  one's  imagina- 
tion ?  Where  are  they,  all  these  people,  at  this  hour  ? 

Slowly  he  goes  back  towards  the  barn.  Then  mechani- 
cally he  turns  and  goes  forward  again,  with  hesitating 
steps.  He  will  try,  all  the  same.  Perhaps  he  can  find 
convivial  comrades.  He  approaches  the  central  part  of 
the  village  just  when  night  has  buried  the  earth. 

The  lighted  doors  and  windows  of  the  taverns  shine 
again  in  the  mud  of  the  main  street.  There  are  taverns 
every  twenty  paces  One  dimly  sees  the  heavy  spectres 
of  soldiers,  mostly  in  groups,  descending  the  street. 
When  a  motor-car  comes  along,  they  draw  aside  to  let 
it  pass,  dazzled  by  the  head-lights,  and  bespattered  by 
the  liquid  mud  that  the  wheels  hurl  over  the  whole 
width  of  the  road. 

The  taverns  are  full.  Through  the  steamy  windows 
one  can  see  they  are  packed  with  compact  clouds  of 
helmeted  men. 

Fouillade  goes  into  one  or  two,  on  chance.  Once 
over  the  threshold,  the  dram-shop's  tepid  breath,  the 
light,  the  smell  and  the  hubbub,  affect  him  with  long- 
ing. This  gathering  at  tables  is  at  least  a  fragment  of 
the  past  in  the  present. 

He  looks  from  table  to  table,  and  disturbs  the  groups 
as  he  goes  up  to  scrutinise  all  the  merrymakers  in  the 
room.  Alas,  he  knows  no  one  !  Elsewhere,  it  is  the 
same ;  he  has  no  luck.  In  vain  he  has  extended  his 
neck  and  sent  his  desperate  glances  in  search  of  a 


H2  UNDER  FIRE 

familiar  head  among  the  uniformed  men  who  in  clumps 
or  couples  drink  and  talk  or  in  solitude  write.  He  has 
the  air  of  a  cadger,  and  no  one  pays  him  heed. 

Finding  no  soul  to  come  to  his  relief,  he  decides  to 
invest  at  least  what  he  has  in  his  pocket.  He  slips  up 
to  the  counter.  "  A  pint  of  wine — and  good." 

"White?" 

"  Eh,  oui." 

"  You,  mon  gar$on,  you're  from  the  South,"  says  the 
landlady,  handing  him  a  little  'full  bottle  and  a  glass, 
and  gathering  his  twelve  sous. 

He  places  himself  at  the  corner  of  a  table  already 
overcrowded  by  four  drinkers  who  are  united  in  a  game 
of  cards.  He  fills  the  glass  to  the  brim  and  empties  it, 
then  fills  it  again. 

"  Hey,  good  health  to  you  !  Don't  drink  the  tum- 
bler !  "  yelps  in  his  face  a  man  who  arrives  in  the  dirty 
blue  jumper  of  fatigues,  and  displays  a  heavy  cross-bar 
of  eyebrows  across  his  pale  face,  a  conical  head,  and 
half  a  pound's  weight  of  ears.  It  is  Harlingue,  the 
armourer. 

It  is  not  very  glorious  to  be  seated  alone  before  a 
pint  in  the  presence  of  a  comrade  who  gives  signs  of 
thirst.  But  Fouillade  pretends  not  to  understand  the 
requirements  of  the  gentleman  who  dallies  in  front  of 
him  with  an  engaging  smile,  and  he  hurriedly  empties 
his  glass.  The  other  turns  his  back,  not  without 
grumbling  that  "  they're  not  very  generous,  but  on  the 
contrary  greedy,  these  Southerners." 

Fouillade  has  put  his  chin  on  his  fists,  and  looks 
unseeing  at  a  corner  of  the  room  where  the  crowded 
poilus  elbow,  squeeze,  and  jostle  each  other  to  get  by. 

It  was  pretty  good,  that  swig  of  white  wine,  but  of 
what  use  are  those  few  drops  in  the  Sahara  of  Fouillade  ? 
The  blues  did  not  far  recede,  and  now  they  return. 

The  Southerner  rises  and  goes  out,  with  his  two 
glasses  of  wine  in  his  stomach  and  one  sou  in  his 
pocket.  He  plucks  up  courage  to  visit  one  more  tavern, 
to  plumb  it  with  his  eyes,  and  by  way  of  excuse  to 


THE  DOG  143 

mutter,  as  he  leaves  the  place,  "  Curse- him  !  He's  never 
there,  the  animal  !  " 

Then  he  returns  to  the  barn,  which  still — as  always — 
whistles  with  wind  and  water.  Fouillade  lights  his 
candle,  and  by  the  glimmer  of  the  flame  that  struggles 
desperately  to  take  wing  and  fly  away,  he  sees  Labri. 
He  stoops  low,  with  his  light  over  the  miserable  dog — 
perhaps  it  will  die  first.  Labri  is  sleeping,  but  feebly, 
for  he  opens  an  eye  at  once,  and  his  tail  moves. 

The  Southerner  strokes  him,  and  says  to  him  in  a 

low  voice,  "  It  can't  be  helped,  it '  He  will  not 

say  more  to  sadden  him,  but  the  dog  signifies  apprecia- 
tion by  jerking  his  head  before  closing  his  eyes  again. 
Fouillade  rises  stiffly,  by  reason  of  his  rusty  joints,  and 
makes  for  his  couch.  For  only  one  thing  more  he  is 
now  hoping — to  sleep,  that  the  dismal  day  may  die, 
that  wrasted  day,  like  so  many  others  that  there  will 
be  to  endure  stoicalry  and  to  overcome,  before  the  last 
day  arrives  of  the  war  or  of  his  life. 


XII 

THE    DOORWAY 

"  IT'S  foggy.     Would  you  like  to  go  ?  " 

It  is  Poterloo  who  asks,  as  he  turns  towards  me  and 
shows  eyes  so  blue  that  they  make  his  fine,  fair  head 
seem  transparent. 

Poterloo  comes  from  Souchez,  and  now  that  the 
Chasseurs  have  at  last  retaken  it,  he  wants  to  see  again 
the  village  where  he  lived  happily  in  the  days  when  he 
was  only  a  man. 

It  is  a  pilgrimage  of  peril;  not  that  we  should  have 
far  to  go — Souchez  is  just  there.  For  six  months  we  have 
lived  and  worked  in  the  trenches  almost  within  hail  of 
the  village.  We  have  only  to  climb  straight  from  here 
on  to  the  Bethune  road  along  which  the  trench  creeps, 
the  road  honeycombed  underneath  by  our  shelters,  and 
descend  it  for  four  or  five  hundred  yards  as  it  dips  down 
towards  Souchez.  But  all  that  ground  is  under  regular 
and  terrible  attention.  Since  their  recoil,  the  Germans 
have  constantly  sent  huge  shells  into  it.  Their  thunder 
shakes  us  in  our  caverns  from  time  to  time,  and  we  see, 
high  above  the  scarps,  now  here  now  there,  the  great 
black  geysers  of  earth  and  rubbish,  and  the  piled 
columns  of  smoke,  as  high  as  churches.  Why  do  they 
bombard  Souchez?  One  cannot  say  why,  for  there  is 
no  longer  anybody  or  anything  in  the  village  so  often 
taken  and  retaken,  that  we  have  so  fiercely  wrested 
from  each  other. 

But  this  morning  a  dense  fog  enfolds  us,  and  by 
favour  of  the  great  curtain  that  the  sky  throws  over  the 
earth  one  might  risk  it.  We  are  sure  at  least  of  not 
being  seen.  The  fog  hermetically  closes  the  perfected 

144 


THE  DOORWAY  145 

retina  of  the  Sausage  that  must  be  somewhere  up  there, 
enshrouded  in  the  white  wadding  that  raises  its  vast 
wall  of  partition  between  our  lines  and  those  observa- 
tion posts  of  Lens  and  Angres,  whence  the  enemy  spies 
upon  us. 

"  Right  you  are  !  "  I  say  to  Poterloo. 

Adjutant  Barthe,  informed  of  our  project,  wags  his 
head  up  and  down,  and  lowers  his  eyelids  in  token  that 
he  does  not  see. 

We  hoist  ourselves  out  of  the  trench,  and  behold  us 
both,  upright,  on  the  Bethune  road  ! 

It  is  the  first  time  I  have  walked  there  during  the  day. 
I  have  never  seen  it,  except  from  afar,  the  terrible  road 
that  we  have  so  often  travelled  or  crossed  in  leaps, 
bowed  down  in  the  darkness,  and  under  the  whistling 
of  missiles. 

"  Well,  are  you  coming,  old  man  ?  " 

After  some  paces,  Poterloo  has  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  where  the  fog  like  cotton-wool  unravels 
itself  into  pendent  fragments,  and  there  he  dilates  his 
sky-blue  eyes  and  half  opens  his  scarlet  mouth. 

"  Ah,  la,  la  !  Ah,  la,  la  !  "  he  murmurs.  When  I 
turn  to  him  he  points  to  the  road,  shakes  his  head  and 
says,  "  This  is  it,  Bon  Dieu,  to  think  this  is  it  !  This 
bit  where  we  are,  I  know  it  so  well  that  if  I  shut  my 
eyes  I  can  see  it  as  it  was,  exactly.  Old  chap,  it's 
awful  to  see  it  again  like  that.  It  was  a  beautiful  road, 
planted  all  the  way  along  with  big  trees. 

"  And  now,  what  is  it  ?  Look  at  it — a  sort  of  long 
thing  without  a  soul — sad,  sad.  Look  at  these  two 
trenches  on  each  side,  alive ;  this  ripped-up  paving, 
bored  with  funnels ;  these  trees  uprooted,  split,  scorched, 
broken  like  faggots,  thrown  all  ways,  pierced  by  bullets 
— look,  this  pock-marked  pestilence,  here !  Ah,  my 
boy,  my  boy,  you  can't  imagine  how  it  is  disfigured, 
this  road  !  "  And  he  goes  forward,  seeing  some  new 
amazement  at  every  step. 

It  is  a  fantastic  road  enough,  in  truth.  On  both 
sides  of  it  are  crouching  armies,  and  their  missiles  have 
L 


r6  UNDER  FIRE 

mingled  on  it  for  a  year  and  a  half.  It  is  a  great  dis- 
hevelled highway,  travelled  only  by  bullets  and  by  ranks 
and  files  of  shells,  that  have  furrowed  and  upheaved  it, 
covered  it  with  the  earth  of  the  fields,  scooped  it  and  laid 
bare  its  bones.  It  might  be  under  a  curse  ;  it  is  a  way 
of  no  colour,  burned  and  old,  sinister  and  awful  to  see. 

"  If  you'd  only  known  it — how  clean  and  smooth  it 
was  !  "  says  Poterloo.  "  All  sorts  of  trees  were  there, 
and  leaves,  and  colours — like  butterflies ;  and  there 
was  always  some  one  passing  on  it  to  give  good-day  to 
some  good  woman  rocking  between  two  baskets,  or 
people  shouting  *  to  each  other  in  a  chaise,  with  the  good 
wind  ballooning  their  smocks.  Ah,  how  happy  life  was 
once  on  a  time  !  " 

He  dives  down  to  the  banks  of  the  misty  stream  that 
follows  the  roadway  towards  the  land  of  parapets. 
Stooping,  he  stops  by  some  faint  swellings  of  the  ground 
on  which  crosses  are  fixed — tombs,  recessed  at  intervals 
into  the  wall-  of  fog,  like  the  Stations  of  the  Cross  in  a 
church. 

I  call  him — we  shall  never  get  there  at  such  a  funeral 
pace.  Allans  I 

We  come  to  a  wide  depression  in  the  land,  I  in  front 
and  Poterloo  lagging  behind,  his  head  confused  and 
heavy  with  thought  as  he  tries  in  vain  to  exchange  with 
inanimate  things  his  glances  of  recognition.  Just  there 
the  road  is  lower,  a  fold  secretes  it  from  the  side  towards 
the  north.  On  this  sheltered  ground  there  is  a  little 
traffic. 

Along  the  hazy,  filthy,  and  unwholesome  space,  where 
withered  grass  is  embedded  in  black  mud,  there  are  rows 
of  dead.  They  are  carried  there  when  the  trenches  or 
the  plain  are  cleared  during  the  night.  They  are 
waiting — some  of  them  have  waited  long — to  be  .taken 
back  to  the  cemeteries  after  dark. 

We  approach  them  slowly.  They  are  close  against 
each  other,  and  each  one  indicates  with  arms  or  legs  some 

1  All  these  high  roads  are  stone-paved,  and  traffic  is  noisy. — 
Tr. 


THE  DOORWAY  147 

different  posture  of  stiffened  agony.  There  are  some 
with  half-mouldy  faces,  the  skin  rusted,  or  yellow  with 
dark  spots.  Of  several  the  faces  are  black  as  tar,  the 
lips  hugely  distended — the  heads  of  negroes  blown  out 
in  goldbeaters'  skin.  Between  two  bodies,  protruding 
uncertainty  from  one  or  the  other,  is  a  severed  wrist, 
ending  with  a  cluster  of  strings. 

Others  are  shapeless  larvae  of  pollution,  with  dubious 
items  of  equipment  pricking  up,  or  bits  of  bone. 
Farther  on,  a  corpse  has  been  brought  in  in  such  a  state 
that  they  have  been  obliged — so  as  not  to  lose  it  on  the 
way — to  pile  it  on  a  lattice  of  wire  which  was  then 
fastened  to  the  two  ends  of  a  stake.  Thus  was  it 
carried  in  the  hollow  of  its  metal  hammock,  and  laid 
there.  You  cannot  make  out  either  end  of  the  body; 
alone,  in  the  heap  that  it  makes,  one  recognises  the 
gape  of  a  trouser-pocket.  An  insect  goes  in  and  out 
of  it. 

Around  the  dead  flutter  letters  that  "have  escaped 
from  pockets  or  cartridge  pouches  while  they  were  being 
placed  on  the  ground.  Over  one  of  these  bits  of  white 
paper,  whose  wings  still  beat  though  the  mud  ensnares 
them,  I  stoop  slightly  and  read  a  sentence — "My  dear 
Henry,  what  a  fine  day  it  is  for  your  birthday  !  "  The 
man  is  on  his  belly;  his  loins  are  rent  from  hip  to  hip 
by  a  deep  furrow;  his  head  is  half  turned  round;  we 
see  a  sunken  eye ;  and  on  temples,  cheek  and  neck  a 
kind  of  green  moss  is  growing. 

A  sickening  atmosphere  roams  with  the  wind  around 
these  dead  dnd  the  heaped-up  debris  that  lies  about 
them — tent-cloth  or  clothing  in  stained  tatters,  stiff 
with  dried  blood,  charred  by  the  scorch  of  the  shell, 
hardened,  earthy  and  already  rotting,  quick  with 
swarming  and  questing  things.  It  troubles  us.  We 
look  at  each  other  and  shake  our  heads,  nor  dare  admit 
aloud  that  the  place  smells  bad.  All  the  same,  we  go 
away  slowly. 

Now  come  breaking  out  of  the  fog  the  bowed  backs 
of  men  who  are  joined  together  by  something  they  are 


148  UNDER  FIRE 

carrying.  They  are  Territorial  stretcher-bearers  with 
a  new  corpse.  They  come  up  with  their  old  wan  faces, 
toiling,  sweating,  and  grimacing  with  the  effort.  To 
carry  a  dead  man  in  the  lateral  trenches  when  they  are 
muddy  is  a  work  almost  beyond  human  power.  They 
put  down  the  body,  which  is  dressed  in  new  clothes. 

"  It's  not  long  since,  now,  that  he  was  standing,"  says 
one  of  the  bearers.  "  It's  two  hours  since  he  got  his 
bullet  in  the  head  for  going  to  look  for  a  Boche  rifle  in 
the  plain.  He  was  going  on  leave  on  Wednesday  and 
wanted  to  take  a  rifle  home  with  him.  He  is  a  sergeant 
of  the  405th,  Class  1914.  A  nice  lad,  too." 

He  takes  away  the  handkerchief  that  is  over  the  face. 
It  is  quite  young,  and  seems  to  sleep,  except  that  an 
eyeball  has  gone,  the  cheek  looks  waxen,  and  a  rosy 
liquid  has  run  over  the  nostrils,  mouth,  and  eyes. 

The  body  strikes  a  note  of  cleanliness  in  the  charnel- 
house,  this  still  pliant  body  that  lolls  its  head  aside  when 
it  is  moved  as  if  to  lie  better ;  it  gives  a  childish  illusion 
of  being  less  dead  than  the  others.  But  being  less  dis- 
figured, it  seems  more  pathetic,  nearer  to  one,  more 
intimate,  as  we  look.  And  had  we  said  anything  in  the 
presence  of  all  that  heap  of  beings  destroyed,  it  would 
have  been  "  Poor  boy  !  " 

We  take  the  road  again,  which  at  this  point  begins  to 
slope  down  to  the  depth  where  Souchez  lies.  Under 
our  feet  in  the  whiteness  of  the  fog  it  appears  like  a 
valley  of  frightful  misery.  The  piles  of  rubbish,  of 
remains  and  of  filthiness  accumulate  on  the  shattered 
spine  of  the  road's  paving  and  on  its  miry  borders  in 
final  confusion.  The  trees  bestrew  the  ground  or  have 
disappeared,  torn  away,  their  stumps  mangled.  The 
banks  of  the  road  are  overturned  and  overthrown  by 
shell- fire.  All  the  way  along,  on  both  sides  of  this 
highway  where  only  the  crosses  remain  standing,  are 
trenches  twenty  times  blown  in  and  re-hollowed, 
cavities — some  with  passages  into  them — hurdles  on 
quagmires. 

The   more   we   go   forward,   the  more   is  everything 


THE  DOORWAY  149 

turned  terribly  inside  out,  full  of  putrefaction,  cata- 
clysmic. We  walk  on  a  surface  of  shell  fragments,  and 
the  foot  trips  on  them  at  every  step.  We  go  among  them 
as  if  they  were  snares,  and  stumble  in  the  medley  of 
broken  weapons  or  bits  of  kitchen  utensils,  of  water- 
bottles,  fire-buckets,  sewing-machines,  among  the 
bundles  of  electrical  wiring,  the  French  and  German 
accoutrements  all  mutilated  and  encrusted  in  dried  mud, 
and  among  the  sinister  piles  of  clothing,  stuck  together 
with  a  reddish-brown  cement.  And  one  must  look  out, 
too,  for  the  unexploded  shells,  which  everywhere  pro- 
trude their  noses  or  reveal  their  flanks  or  their  bases, 
painted  red,  blue,  and  tawny  brown. 

"  That's  the  old  Boche  trench,  that  they  cleared  out 
of  in  the  end."  It  is  choked  up  in  some  places,  in  others 
riddled  with  shell-holes.  The  sandbags  have  been  torn 
asunder  and  gutted;  they  are  crumbled,  emptied, 
scattered  to  the  wind.  The  wooden  props  and  beams 
are  splintered,  and  point  all  ways.  The  dug-outs  are 
filled  to  the  brim  with  earth  and  with — no  one  knows 
what.  It  is  all  like  the  dried  bed  of  a  river,  smashed, 
extended,  slimy,  that  both  water  and  men  have  aban- 
doned. In  one  place  the  trench  has  been  simply  wiped 
out  by  the  guns.  The  wide  fosse  is  blocked,  and  remains 
no  more  than  a  field  of  new-turned  earth,  made  of  holes 
symmetrically  bored  side  by  side,  in  length  and  in 
breadth. 

I  point  out  to  Poterloo  this  extraordinary  field,  that 
would  seem  to  have  been  traversed  by  a  giant  plough. 
But  he  is  absorbed  to  his  very  vitals  in  the  metamorphosis 
of  the  country's  face. 

He  indicates  a  space  in  the  plain  with  his  finger,  and 
with  a  stupefied  air,  as  though  he  came  out  of  a  dream — 
"  The  Red  Tavern  !  "  It  is  a  flat  field,  carpeted  with 
broken  bricks. 

And  what  is  that,  there  ?  A  milestone  ?  No,  it  is 
not  a  milestone.  It  is  a  head,  a  black  head,  tanned  and 
polished.  The  mouth  is  all  askew,  and  you  can  see 
something  of  the  moustache  bristling  on  each  side — • 


ISO  UNDER  FIRE 

the  great  head  of  a  carbonised  cat.  The  corpse — it  is 
German — is  underneath,  buried  upright. 

"  And  that  ?  "  It  is  a  ghastly  collection  containing 
an  entirely  white  skull,  and  then,  six  feet  away,  a  pair 
of  boots,  and  between  the  two  a  heap  of  frayed  leather 
and  of  rags,  cemented  by  brown  mud. 

"  Come  on,  there's  less  fog  already.     We  must  hurry." 

A  hundred  yards  in  front  of  us,  among  the  more 
transparent  waves  of  fog  that  are  changing  places  with 
us  and  hide  us  less  and  less,  a  shell  whistles  and  bursts. 
It  has  fallen  in  the  spot  we  are  just  nearing.  We  are 
descending,  and  the  gradient  is  less  steep.  We  go  side 
by  side.  My  companion  says  nothing,  but  looks  to 
right  and  to  left.  Then  he  stops  again,  as  he  did  at  the 
top  of  the  road.  I  hear  his  faltering  voice,  almost 
inaudible — "What's  this!  We're  there — this  is  it V 

In  point  of  fact  we  have  not  left  the  plain,  the  vast 
plain,  seared  and  barren — but  we  are  in  Souchez  ! 

The  village  has  disappeared,  nor  have  I  seen  a  village 
go  so  completely.  Ablain-Saint-Nazaire,  and  Carency, 
these  still  retained  some  shape  of  a  place,  with  their 
collapsed  and  truncated  houses,  their  yards  heaped  high 
with  plaster  and  tiles.  Here,  within  the  framework  of 
slaughtered  trees  that  surrounds  us  as  a  spectral  back- 
ground in  the  fog,  there  is  no  longer  any  shape.  There 
is  not  even  an  end  of  wall,  fence,  or  porch  that  remains 
standing ;  and  it  amazes  one  to  discover  that  there  are 
paving-stones  under  the  tangle  of  beams,  stones,  and 
scrap-iron.  This — here — was  a  street. 

It  might  have  been  a  dirty  and  boggy  waste  near  a  big 
town,  whose  rubbish  of  demolished  buildings  and  its 
domestic  refuse  had  been  shot  here  for  years,  till  no 
spot  was  empty.  We  plunge  into  a  uniform  layer  of 
dung  and  debris,  and  make  but  slow  and  difficult 
progress.  The  bombardment  has  so  changed  the  face 
of  things  that  it  has  diverted  the  course  of  the  mill- 
stream,  which  now  runs  haphazard  and  forms  a  pond 
on  the  remains  of  the  little  place  where  the  cross  stood. 

Here  are  several  shell-holes  where  swollen  horses  are 


THE  DOORWAY  151 

rotting ;  in  others  the  remains  of  what  were  once  human 
beings  are  scattered,  distorted  by  the  monstrous  injury 
of  shells. 

Here,  athwart  the  track  we  are  following,  that  we 
ascend  as  through  an  avalanche  or  inundation  of  ruin, 
under  the  unbroken  melancholy  of  the  sky,  here  is  a  man 
stretched  out  as  if  he  slept,  but  he  has  that  close  flatten- 
ing against  the  ground  which  distinguishes  a  dead  man 
from  a  sleeper.  He  is  a  dinner-fatigue  man,  with  a 
chaplet  of  loaves  threaded  over  a  belt,  and  a  bunch  of 
his  comrades'  water-bottles  slung  on  his  shoulder  by  a 
skein  of  straps.  It  must  have  been  only  last  night  that 
the  fragment  of  a  shell  caught  him  in  the  back.  No 
doubt  we  are  the  first  to  find  him,  this  unknown  soldier 
secretly  dead.  Perhaps  he  will  be  scattered  before 
others  find  him,  so  we  look  for  his  identity  disc — it  is 
stuck  in  the  clotted  blood  where  his  right  hand  stag- 
nates. I  copy  down  the  name  that  is  written  in  letters  of 
blood. 

Poterloo  lets  me  do  it  by  myself — he  is  like  a  sleep- 
walker. He  looks,  and  looks  in  despair,  everywhere. 
He  seeks  endlessly  among  those  evanished  and  eviscer- 
ated things ;  through  the  void  he  gazes  to  the  haze  of 
the  horizon.  Then  he  sits  down  on  a  beam,  having  first 
sent  flying  with  a  kick  a  saucepan  that  lay  on  it,  and  I 
sit  by  his  side.  A  light  drizzle  is  falling.  The  fog's 
moisture  is  resolving  in  little  drops  that  cover  everything 
with  a  slight  gloss.  He  murmurs,  "  Ah,  la,  la!  " 

He  wipes  his  forehead  and  raises  imploring  eyes  to  me. 
He  is  trying  to  make  out  and  take  in  the  destruction 
of  all  this  corner  of  the  earth,  and  the  mournfulness  of 
it.  He  stammers  disjointed  remarks  and  interjections. 
He  takes  off  his  great  helmet  and  his  head  is  smoking. 
Then  he  says  to  me  with  difficulty,  "  Old  man,  you 
cannot  imagine,  you  cannot,  you  cannot " 

He  whispers  :  "  The  Red  Tavern,  where  that — where 
that  Boche's  head  is,  and  litters  of  beastliness  all  around, 
that  sort  of  cesspool — it  was  on  the  edge  of  the  road, 
a  brick  house  and  two  out-buildings  alongside — how 


152  UNDER  FIRE 

many  times,  old  man,  on  the  very  spot  where  we  stood, 
how  many  times,  there,  the  good  woman  who  joked  with 
me  on  her  doorstep,  I've  given  her  good-day  as  I  wiped 
my  mouth  and  looked  towards  Souchez  that  I  was 
going  back  to  !  And  then,  after  a  few  steps,  I've  turned 
round  to  shout  some  nonsense  to  her  !  Oh,  you  cannot 

imagine !     But  that,  now,  that /"     He  makes 

an  inclusive  gesture  to  indicate  all  the  emptiness  that 
surrounds  him. 

"  We  mustn't  stay  here  too  long,  old  chap.  The 
fog's  lifting,  you  know." 

He  stands  up  with  an  effort — "  Allans." 

The  most  serious  part  is  yet  to  come.     His  house — 

He.  hesitates,  turns  towards  the  east,  goes.  "  It's 
there — no,  I've  passed  it.  It's  not  there.  I  don't 
know  where  it  is — or  where  it  was.  Ah,  misery, 
misery  !  "  He  wrings  his  hands  in  despair  and  staggers 
in  the  middle  of  the  medley  of  plaster  and  bricks.  Then, 
bewildered  by  this  encumbered  plain  of  lost  landmarks, 
he  looks  questioningly  about  in  the  air,  like  a  thoughtless 
child,  like  a  madman.  He  is  looking  for  the  intimacy 
of  the  bedrooms  scattered  in  infinite  space,  for  their 
inner  form  and  their  twilight  now  cast  upon  the  winds  ! 

After  several  goings  and  comings,  he  stops  at  one  spot 
and  draws  back  a  little — 

"  It  was  there,  I'm  right.  Look — it's  that  stone  there 
that  I  knew  it  by.  There  was  a  vent-hole  there,  you  can 
see  the  mark  of  the  bar  of  iron  that  was  over  the  hole 
before  it  disappeared." 

Sniffling  he  reflects,  and  gently  shaking  his  head  as 
though  he  could  not  stop  it  :  "  It  is  when  you  no  longer 
have  anything  that  you  understand  how  happy  you  were. 
Ah,  how  happy  we  were  !  " 

He  comes  up  to  me  and  laughs  nervously  :  "  It's  out 
of  the  common,  that,  eh?  I'm  sure  you've  never 
seen  yourself  like  it — can't  find  the  house  where  you've 
always  lived  since — since  always " 

He  turns  about,  and  it  is  he  who  leads  me  away  : 
"  Well,  let's  leg  it,  since  there  is  nothing.  Why  spend  a 


THE  DOORWAY  153 

whole  hour  looking  at  places  where  things  were  ?     Let's 
be  off,  old  man." 

We  depart — the  only  two  living  beings  to  be  seen 
in  that  unreal  and  miasmal  place,  that  village  which 
bestrews  the  earth  and  lies  under  our  feet. 

We  climb  again.  The  weather  is  clearing  and  the  fog 
scattering  quickly.  My  silent  comrade,  who  is  making 
great  strides  with  lowered  head,  points  out  a  field  : 
"  The  cemetery,"  he  says ;  "it  was  there  before  it  was 
everywhere,  before  it  laid  hold  on  everything  without 
end,  like  a  plague." 

Half-way,  we  go  more  slowly,  and  Poterloo  comes 
close  to  me — "  You  know,  it's  too  much,  all  that.  It's 
wiped  out  too  much — all  my  life  up  to  now.  It  makes 
me  afraid — it  is  so  completely  wiped  out." 

"Come;  your  wife's  in  good  health,  you  know; 
your  little  girl,  too." 

He  looks  at  me  comically  :  "  My  wife — I'll  tell  you 
something;  my  wife " 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  old  chap,  I've  seen  her  again." 

"  You've  seen  her  ?  I  thought  she  was  in  the  occupied 
country  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she's  at  Lens,  with  my  relations.  Well,  I've 
seen  her — ah,  and  then,  after  all,  zut ! — I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it.  Well,  I  was  at  Lens,  three  weeks  ago.  It 
was  the  eleventh;  that's  twenty  days  since." 

I  look  at  him,  astounded.  But  he  looks  like  one  who 
is  speaking  the  truth.  He  talks  in  sputters  at  my  side, 
as  we  walk  in  the  increasing  light — 

"  They  told  us — you  remember,  perhaps — but  you 
weren't  there,  I  believe — they  told  us  the  wire  had  got 
to  be  strengthened  in  front  of  the  Billard  Trench.  You 
know  what  that  means,  eh  ?  They  hadn't  been  able  to 
do  it  till  then.  As  soon  as  one  gets  out  of  the  trench 
he's  on  a  downward  slope,  that's  got  a  funny  name." 

"  The  Toboggan." 

"  Yes,  that's  it ;  and  the  place  is  as  bad  by  night  or 
in  fog  as  in  broad  daylight,  because  of  the  rifles  trained 


154  UNDER  FIRE 

on  it  beforehand  on  trestles,  and  the  machine-guns  that 
they  point  during  the  day.  When  they  can't  see  any 
more,  the  Boches  sprinkle  the  lot. 

"  They  took  the  pioneers  of  the  C.H.R.,  but  there 
were  some  missing,  and  they  replaced  'em  with  a  few 
poilus.  I  was  one  of  'em.  Good.  We  climb  out. 
Not  a  single  rifle-shot  !  '  What  does  it  mean  ?  '  we  says, 
and  behold,  we  see  a  Boche,  two  Boches,  three  Boches, 
coming  out  of  the  ground — the  grey  devils  ! — and  they 
make  signs  to  us  and  shout  '  Kamarad  !  '  '  We're 
Alsatians/  they  says,  coming  more  and  more  out  of 
their  communication  trench — the  International.  '  They 
won't  fire  on  you,  up  there,'  they  says ;  '  don't  be 
afraid,  friends.  Just  let  us  bury  our  dead.'  And 
behold  us  working  aside  of  each  other,  and  even  talking 
together  since  they  were  from  Alsace.  And  to  tell  the 
truth,  they  groused  about  the  war  and  about  their 
officers.  Our  sergeant  knew  all  right  that  it  was  for- 
bidden to  talk  with  the  enemy,  and  they'd  even  read  it 
out  to  us  that  we  were  only  to  talk  to  them  with  our 
rifles.  But  the  sergeant  he  says  to  himself  that  this  is 
God's  own  chance  to  strengthen  the  wire,  and  as  long 
as  they  were  letting  us  work  against  them,  we'd  just  got 
to  take  advantage  of  it. 

"  Then  behold  one  of  the  Boches  that  says,  '  There 
isn't  perhaps  one  of  you  that  comes  from  the  invaded 
country  and  would  like  news  of  his  family  ?  ' 

"  Old  chap,  that  was  a  bit  too  much  for  me.  With- 
out thinking  if  I  did  right  or  wrong,  I  went  up  to  him 
and  I  said,  '  Yes,  there's  me.'  The  Boche  asks  me 
questions.  I  tell  him  my  wife's  at  Lens  with  her 
relations,  and  the  little  one,  too.  He  asks  where  she's 
staying.  I  explain  to  him,  and  he  says  he  can  see  it 
from  there.  '  Listen,'  he  says,  '  I'll  take  her  a  letter, 
and  not  only  that,  but  I'll  bring  you  an  answer.'  Then 
all  of  a  sudden  he  taps  his  forehead,  the  Boche,  and 
comes  close  to  me — '  Listen,  my  friend,  to  a  lot  better 
still.  If  you  like  to  do  what  I  say,  you  shall  see  your 
wife,  and  your  kids  as  well,  and  all  the  lot,  sure  as  I 


THE  DOORWAY  155 

see  you.'  He  tells  me,  to  do  it,  I've  only  got  to  go  with 
him  at  a  certain  time  with  a  Boche  greatcoat  and  a 
shako  that  he'll  have  for  me.  He'd  mix  me  up  in  a 
coal-fatigue  in  Lens,  and  we'd  go  to  our  house.  I 
could  go  and  have  a  look  on  condition  that  I  laid  low 
and  didn't  show  myself,  and  he'd  be  responsible  for  the 
chaps  of  the  fatigue,  but  there  were  non-coms,  in  the 
house  that  he  wouldn't  answer  for — and,  old  chap, 
I  agreed  !  " 

"  That  was  serious." 

"  Yes,  for  sure,  it  was  serious.  I  decided  all  at  once, 
without  thinking  and  without  wishing  to  think,  seeing 
I  was  dazzled  with  the  idea  of  seeing  my  people  again ; 
and  if  I  got  shot  afterwards,  well,  so  much  the  worse — 
but  give  and  take.  The  supply  of  law  and  demand  they 
call  it,  don't  they? 

"  My  boy,  it  all  went  swimmingly.  The  only 
hitch  was  they  had  such  hard  work  to  find  a  shako 
big  enough,  for,  as  you  know,  I'm  well  off  for  head. 
But  even  that  was  fixed  up.  They  raked  me  out  in  the 
end  a  louse-box  big  enough  to  hold  my  head.  I've 
already  some  Boche  boots — those  that  were  Caron's, 
you  know.  So,  behold  us  setting  off  in  the  Boche 
trenches — and  they're  most  damnably  like  ours — with 
these  good  sorts  of  Boche  comrades,  who  told  me  in 
very  good  French — same  as  I'm  speaking — not  to  fret 
myself. 

'  There  was  no  alarm,  nothing.  Getting  there  came 
off  all  right.  Everything  went  off  so  sweet  and  simple 
that  I  fancied  I  must  be  a  defaulting  Boche.  We  got 
to  Lens  at  nightfall.  I  remember  we  passed  in  front  of 
La  Perche  and  went  down  the  Rue  du  Quatorze-Juillet. 
I  saw  some  of  the  townsfolk  walking  about  in  the 
streets  like  they  do  in  our  quarters.  I  didn't  recognise 
them  because  of  the  evening,  nor  them  me,  because  of 
the  evening  too,  and  because  of  the  seriousness  of  things. 
It  was  so  dark  you  couldn't  put  your  finger  into  your 
eye  when  I  reached  my  folk's  garden. 

"  My  heart  was  going  top  speed.     I  was  all  trembling 


156  UNDER  FIRE 

from  head  to  foot  as  if  I  were  only  a  sort  of  heart  myself. 
And  I  had  to  hold  myself  back  from  carrying  on  aloud, 
and  in  French  too,  I  was  so  happy  and  upset.  The 
Kamarad  says  to  me,  '  You  go,  pass  once,  then  another 
time,  and  look  in  at  the  door  and  the  window.  Don't 
look  as  if  you  were  looking.  Be  careful.'  So  I  get  hold 
of  myself  again,  and  swallow  my  feelings  all  at  a  gulp. 
Not  a  bad  sort,  that  devil,  seeing  he'd  have  had  a  hell 
of  a  time  if  I'd  got  nailed. 

"  At  our  place,  you  know,  same  as  everywhere  in  the 
Pas  de  Calais,  the  outside  doors  of  the  houses  are  cut 
in  two.  At  the  bottom,  it's  a  sort  of  barrier,  half-way 
up  your  body;  and  above,  you  might  call  it  a  shutter. 
So  you  can  shut  the  bottom  half  and  be  one-half  private. 

"  The  top  half  was  open,  and  the  room,  that's  the 
dining-room,  and  the  kitchen  as  well,  of  course,  was 
lighted  up  and  I  heard  voices. 

"  I  went  by  with  my  neck  twisted  sideways.  There 
were  heads  of  men  and  women  with  a  rosy  light  on  them, 
round  the  round  table  and  the  lamp.  My  eyes  fell  on 
her,  on  Clotilde.  I  saw  her  plainly.  She  was  sitting 
between  two  chaps,  non-coms.,  I  believe,  and  they  were 
talking  to  her.  And  what  was  she  doing?  Nothing; 
she  was  smiling,  and  her  face  was  prettily  bent  forward 
and  surrounded  with  a  light  little  framework  of  fair  hair, 
and  the  lamp  gave  it  a  bit  of  a  golden  look. 

"  She  was  smiling.  She  was  contented.  She  had  a 
look  of  being  well  off,  by  the  side  of  the  Boche  officer, 
and  the  lamp,  and  the  fire  that  puffed  an  unfamiliar 
warmth  out  on  me.  I  passed,  and  then  I  turned  round, 
and  passed  again.  I  saw  her  again,  and  she  was  always 
smiling.  Not  a  forced  smile,  not  a  debtor's  smile,  non, 
a  real  smile  that  came  from  her,  that  she  gave.  And 
during  that  time  of  illumination  that  I  passed  in  two 
senses,  I  could  see  my  baby  as  well,  stretching  her  hands 
out  to  a  great  striped  simpleton  and  trying  to  climb  on 
his  knee ;  and  then,  just  by,  who  do  you  think  I  recog- 
nised? Madeleine  Vandaert,  Vandaert's  wife,  my  pal 
of  the  igth,  that  was  killed  at  the  Marne,  at  Montyon. 


THE  DOORWAY  157 

"  She  knew  he'd  been  killed  because  she  was  in 
mourning.  And  she,  she  was  having  good  fun,  and 
laughing  outright,  I  tell  you — and  she  looked  at  one 
and  the  other  as  much  as  to  say,  '  I'm  all  right  here  !  ' 

"Ah,  my  boy,  I  cleared  out  of  that,  and  butted 
into  the  Kamarads  that  were  waiting  to  take  me  back. 
How  I  got  back  I  couldn't  tell  you.  I  was  knocked  out. 
I  went  stumbling  like  a  man  under  a  curse,  and  if  any- 
body had  said  a  wrong  word  to  me  just  then !  I 

should  have  shouted  out  loud;  I  should  have  made  a 
row,  so  as  to  get  killed  and  be  done  with  this  filthy  life  ! 

"  Do  you  catch  on  ?  She  was  smiling,  my  wife,  my 
Clotilde,  at  this  time  in  the  war!  And  why?  Have 
we  only  got  to  be  away  for  a  time  for  us  not  to  count 
any  more  ?  You  take  your  damned  hook  from  home  to 
go  to  the  war,  and  everything  seems  finished  with ;  and 
they  worry  for  a  while  that  you're  gone,  but  bit  by  bit 
you  become  as  if  you  didn't  exist,  they  can  do  without 
you  to  be  as  happy  as  they  were  before,  and  to  smile. 
Ah,  Christ !  I'm  not  talking  of  the  other  woman  that 
was  laughing,  but  my  Clotilde,  mine,  who  at  that  chance 
moment  when  I  saw  her,  whatever  you  may  say,  was 
getting  on  damned  well  without  me  ! 

"  And  then,  if  she'd  been  with  friends  or  relations ; 
but  no,  actually  with  Boche  officers  !  Tell  me,  shouldn't 
I  have  had  good  reason  to  jump  into  the  room,  fetch  her 
a  couple  of  swipes,  and  wring  the  neck  of  the  other  old 
hen  in  mourning  ? 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  thought  of  doing  it.  I  know  all  right 
I  was  getting  violent,  I  was  getting  out  of  control. 

"  Mark  me.  I  don't  want  to  say  more  about  it  than 
I  have  said.  She's  a  good  lass,  Clotilde.  I  know  her, 
and  I've  confidence  in  her.  I'm  not  far  wrong,  you 
know.  If  I  were  done  in,  she'd  cry  all  the  tears  in  her 
body  to  begin  with.  She  thinks  I'm  alive,  I  admit,  but 
that  isn't  the  point.  She  can't  prevent  herself  from  being 
well  off,  and  contented,  and  letting  herself  go,  when  she's 
a  good  fire,  a  good  lamp,  and  company,  whether  I'm 
there  or  not " 


i $8  UNDER  FIRE 

I  led  Poterloo  away:  "You  exaggerate,  old  chap; 
you're  getting  absurd  notions,  come."  We  had  walked 
very  slowly  and  were  still  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The 
fog  was  becoming  like  silver  as  it  prepared  for  departure. 
Sunshine  was  very  near. 

*  #  *  #  *  * 

Poterloo  looked  up  and  said,  "  We'll  go  round  by  the 
Carency  road  and  go  in  at  the  back."  We  struck  off  at 
an  angle  into  the  fields.  ,-At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes 
he  said  to  me,  "  I  exaggerate,  you  think?  You  say 
that  I  exaggerate?"  He  reflected.  "Ah!"  Then 
he  added,  with  the  shaking  of  the  head  that  had  hardly 
left  him  all  the  morning,  "  What  about  it  ?  All  the 
same,  it's  a  fact " 

We  climbed  the  slope.  The  cold  had  become  tepidity. 
Arrived  on  a  little  plateau — "  Let's  sit  here  again  before 
going  in,"  he  proposed.  He  sat  down,  heavy  with  the 
world  of  thought  that  entangled  him.  His  forehead 
was  wrinkled.  Then  he  turned  towards  me  with  an 
awkward  air,  as  if  he  were  going  to  beg  some  favour  : 
"  Tell  me,  mate,  I'm  wondering  if  I'm  right." 

But  after  looking  at  me,  he  looked  at  everything 
else,  as  though  he  would  rather  consiilt  them  than 
me. 

A  transformation  was  taking  place  in  the  sky  and  on 
the  earth.  The  fog  was  hardly  more  than  a  fancy. 
Distances  revealed  themselves.  The  narrow  plain, 
gloomy  and  grey,  was  getting  bigger,  chasing  its  shadows 
away,  and  assuming  colour.  The  light  was  passing 
over  it  from  east  to  west  like  sails. 

And  down  there  at  our  very  feet,  by  the  grace  of 
distance  and  of  light,  we  saw  Souchez  among  the  trees 
— the  little  place  arose  again  before  our  eyes,  new-born 
in  the  sunshine  ! 

"  Am  I  right  ?  "  repeated  Poterloo,  more  faltering, 
more  dubious. 

Before  I  could  speak  he  replied  to  himself,  at  first 
almost  in  a  whisper,  as  the  light  fell  on  him — 

"She's   quite   young,   you   know;    she's  twenty-six. 


THE  DOORWAY  159 

She  can't  hold  her  youth  in,  it's  coming  out  of  her  all 
over,  and  when  she's  resting  in  the  lamp-light  and  the 
warmth,  she's  got  to  smile ;  and  even  if  she  burst  out 
laughing,  it  would  just  simply  be  her  youth,  singing  in 
her  throat.  It  isn't  on  account  of  others,  if  truth  were 
told;  it's  on  account  of  herself.  It's  life.  She  lives. 
Ah,  yes,  she  lives,  and  that's  all.  It  isn't  her  fault  if 
she  lives.  You  wouldn't  have  her  die  ?  Very  well, 
what  do  you  want  her  to  do  ?  Cry  all  day  on  account  of 
me  and  the  Boches  ?  Grouse  ?  One  can't  cry  all  the 
time,  nor  grouse  for  eighteen  months.  Can't  be  done. 
It's  too  long,  I  tell  you.  That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

He  stops  speaking  to  look  at  the  view  of  Notre-Dame- 
de-Lorette,  now  wholly  illuminated. 

"  Same  with  the  kid ;  when  she  found  herself  alongside 
a  simpleton  that  doesn't  tell  her  to  go  and  play  with 
herself,  she  ends  by  wanting  to  get  on  his  knee.  Per- 
haps she'd  prefer  that  it  was  her  uncle  or  a  friend  or  her 
father — perhaps — but  she  tries  it  on  all  the  same  with 
the  only  man  that's  always  there,  even  if  it's  a  great  hog 
in  spectacles. 

"  Ah/'  he  cries,  as  he  gets  up  and  comes  gesticulating 
before  me.  "  There's  a  good  answer  one  could  give 
me.  If  I  didn't  come  back  from  the  war,  I  should  say, 
'  My  lad,  you've  gone  to  smash,  no  more  Clotilde, 
no  more  love  !  You'll  be  replaced  in  her  heart  sooner 
or  later ;  no  getting  round  it ;  your  memory,  the  portrait 
of  you  that  she  carries  in  her,  that'll  fade  bit  by  bit  and 
another'll  come  on  top  of  it,  and  she'll  begin  another 
life  again.'  Ah,  if  I  didn't  come  back  !  " 

He  laughs  heartily.  "  But  I  mean  to  come  back.  Ah, 
yes  !  One  must  be  there.  Otherwise — I  must  be  there, 
look  you,"  he  says  again  more  seriously;  "  otherwise,  if 
you're  not  there,  even  if  you're  dealing  with  saints  and 
angels,  you'll  be  at  fault  in  the  end.  That's  life.  But 
I  am  there."  He  laughs.  "  Well,  I'm  a  little  there, 
as  one  might  say  !  " 

I  get  up  too,  and  tap  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  You're 
right,  old  pal,  it'll  all  come  to  an  end." 


160  UNDER  FIRE 

He  rubs  his  hands  and  goes  on  talking.  "  Yes,  by 
God!  it'll  all  finish,  don't  worry.  Oh,  I  know  well 
there'll  be  hard  graft  before  it's  finished,  and  still  more 
after.  We've  got  to  work,  and  I  don't  only  mean  work 
with  the  arms. 

"  It'll  be  necessary  to  make  everything  over  again. 
Very  well,  we'll  do  it.  The  house  ?  Gone.  The  garden  ? 
Nowhere.  All  right,  we'll  rebuild  the  house,  we'll  remake 
the  garden.  The  less  there  is  the  more  we'll  make  over 
again.  After  all,  it's  life,  and  we're  made  to  remake, 
eh  ?  And  we'll  remake  our  life  together,  and  happiness. 
We'll  make  the  days  again ;  we'll  remake  the  nights. 

"  And  the  other  side,  too.  They'll  make  their  world 
again.  Do  you  know  what  I  say? — perhaps  it  won't 
be  as  long  as  one  thinks 

"  Tiens !  I  can  see  Madeleine  Vandaert  marrying 
another  chap.  She's  a  widow;  but,  old  man,  she's 
been  a  widow  eighteen  months.  Do  you  think  it's  not 
a  big  slice,  that,  eighteen  months  ?  They  even  leave  off 
wearing  mourning,  I  believe,  about  that  time  !  People 
don't  remember  that  when  they  say  '  What  a  strumpet 
she  is,'  and  when,  in  effect,  they  ask  her  to  commit 
suicide.  But,  mon  vieux,  one  forgets.  One  is  forced  to 
forget.  It  isn't  the  people  that  make  you  forget ;  you 
do  it  yourself ;  it's  just  forgetfulness,  mind  you.  I  find 
Madeleine  again  all  of  a  sudden,  and  to  see  her  frivvling 
there  it  broke  me  up  as  much  as  if  her  husband  had 
been  killed  yesterday — it's  natural.  But  it's  a  devil 
of  a  long  time  since  he  got  spiked,  poor  lad.  It's  a 
long  time  since,  it's  too  long  since.  People  are  no  longer 
the  same.  But,  mark  you,  one  must  come  back,  one 
must  be  there  !  We  shall  be  there,  and  we  shall  be 
busy  with  beginning  again  !  " 

On  the  way,  he  looks  and  winks,  cheered  up  by  finding 
a  peg  on  which  to  hang  his  ideas.  He  says — 

"  I  can  see  it  from  here,  after  the  war,  all  the  Souchez 
people  setting  themselves  again  to  work  and  to  life — 
what  a  business  !  Tiens,  Papa  Ponce,  for  example,  the 
back-number !  He  was  so  pernicketty  that  you  could 


THE  DOORWAY  161 

see  him  sweeping  the  grass  in  his  garden  with  a  horse- 
hair brush,  or  kneeling  on  his  lawn  and  trimming  the 
turf  with  a  pair  of  scissors.  Very  well,  he'll  treat  himself 
to  that  again  !  And  Madame  Imaginaire,  that  lived 
in  one  of  the  last  houses  towards  the  Chateau  de  Carleul, 
a  large  woman  who  seemed  to  roll  along  the  ground  as 
if  she'd  got  casters  under  her  big  circular  petticoats. 
She  had  a  child  every  year,  regular,  punctual — a  proper 
machine-gun  of  kids.  Very  well,  she'll  take  that  occupa- 
tion up  again  with  all  her  might." 

He  stops  and  ponders,  and  smiles  a  very  little — almost 
within  himself:  "  Tiens,  I'll  tell  you;  I  noticed — it 
isn't  very  importanf,  this,"  he  insists,  as  though  suddenly 
embarrassed  by  the  triviality  of  this  parenthesis — 
"  but  I  noticed  (you  notice  it  in  a  glance  when  you're 
noticing  something  else)  that  it  was  cleaner  in  our  house 
than  in  my  time " 

We  come  on  some  little  rails  in  the  ground,  climbing 
almost  hidden  in  the  withered  grass  underfoot.  Poter- 
loo  points  out  with  his  foot  this  bit  of  abandoned  track, 
and  smiles  :  "  That,  that's  our  railway.  It  was  a  cripple, 
as  you  may  say ;  that  means  something  that  doesn't 
move.  It  didn't  work  very  quickly.  A  snail  could  have 
kept  pace  with  it.  We  shall  remake  it.  But  certainly 
it  won't  go  any  quicker.  That  can't  be  allowed  !  " 

When  we  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  Poterloo  turned 
round  and  threw  a  last  look  over  the  slaughtered  places 
that  we  had  just  visited.  Even  more  than  a  minute 
ago,  distance  recreated  the  village  across  the  remains 
of  trees  shortened  and  sliced  that  now  looked  like  young 
saplings.  Better  even  than  just  now,  the  sun  shed  on 
that  white  and  red  accumulation  of  mingled  material 
an  appearance  of  life  and  even  an  illusion  of  meditation. 
Its  very  stones  seemed  to  feel  the  vernal  revival.  The 
beauty  of  sunshine  heralded  what  would  be,  and  re- 
vealed the  future.  The  face  of  the  watching  soldier, 
too,  shone  with  a  glamour  of  reincarnation,  and  the 
smile  on  it  was  born  of  the  spring-time  and  of  hope.  His 
rosy  cheeks  and  blue  eyes  seemed  brighter  than  ever. 

M 


1 62  UNDER  FIRE 

We  go  down  into  the  communication  trench  and  there 
is  sunshine  there.  The  trench  is  yellow,  dry,  and 
resounding.  I  admire  its  finely  geometrical  depth,  its 
shovel-smoothed  and  shining  flanks;  and  I  find  it 
enjoyable  to  hear  the  clean  sharp  sound  of  our  feet  on 
the  hard  ground  or  on  the  caillebotis — little  gratings  of 
wood,  placed  end  to  end  and  forming  a  plankway. 

I  look  at  my  watch.  It  tells  me  that  it  is  nine  o'clock, 
and  it  shows  me,  too,  a  dial  of  delicate  colour  where  the 
sky  is  reflected  in  rose-pink  and  blue,  and  the  fine 
fretwork  of  bushes  that  are  planted  there  above  the 
marges  of  the  trench. 

And  Poterloo  and  I  look  at  each  ftther  with  a  kind  of 
confused  delight.  We  are  glad  to  see  each  other,  as 
though  we  were  meeting  after  absence  !  He  speaks 
to  me,  and  though  I  am  quite  familiar  with  the  singsong 
accent  of  the  North,  I  discover  that  he  is  singing. 

We  have  had  bad  days  and  tragic  nights  in  the  cold  and 
the  rain  and  the  mud.  Now,  although  it  is  still  winter, 
the  first  fine  morning  shows  and  convinces  us  that  it 
will  soon  be  spring  once  more.  Already  the  top  of  the 
trench  is  graced  by  green  young  grass,  and  amid  its 
new-born  quivering  some  flowers  are  awakening.  It 
means  the  end  of  contracted  and  constricted  days, 
Spring  is  coming  from  above  and  from  below.  We 
inhale  with  joyful  hearts ;  we  are  uplifted. 

Yes,  the  bad  days  are  ending.  The  war  will  end,  too, 
que  diable !  And  no  doubt  it  will  end  in  the  beautiful 
season  that  is  coming,  that  already  illumines  us,  whose 
zephyrs  already  caress  us. 

A  whistling  sound — tiens,  a  spent  bullet !  A  bullet  ? 
Nonsense — it's  a  blackbird  !  Curious  how  similar  the 
sound  was  !  The  blackbirds  and  the  birds  of  softer 
song,  the  countryside  and  the  pageant  of  the  seasons, 
the  intimacy  of  dwelling-rooms,  arrayed  in  light — 
Oh  !  the  war  will  end  soon ;  we  shall  go  back  for  good 
to  our  own;  wife,  children,  or  to  her  who  is  at  once 
wife  and  child,  and  we  smile  towards  them  in  this 
young  glory  that  already  unites  us  again. 


THE  DOORWAY  163 

At  the  forking  of  the  two  trenches,  in  the  open  and 
on  the  edge,  here  is  something  like  a  doorway.  Two 
posts  lean  one  upon  the  other,  with  a  confusion  of  electric 
wires  between  them,  hanging  down  like  tropical  creepers. 
It  looks  well.  You  would  say  it  was  a  theatrical  con- 
trivance or  scene.  A  slender  climbing  plant  twines 
round  one  of  the  posts,  and  as  you  follow  it  with  your 
glance,  you  see  that  it  already  dares  to  pass  from  one  to 
the  other. 

Soon,  passing  along  this  trench  whose  grassy  slopes 
quiver  like  the  flanks  of  a  fine  horse,  we  come  out  into 
our  own  trench  on  the  Bethune  road,  and  here  is  our 
place.  Our  comrades  are  there,  in  clusters.  They  are 
eating,  and  enjoying  the  goodly  temperature. 

The  meal  finished,  we  clean  our  aluminium  mess-tins 
or  plates  with  a  morsel  of  bread.  "  Tiens,  the  sun's 
going  !  "  It  is  true  ;  a  cloud  has  passed  over  and  hidden 
it.  "  It's  going  to  splash,  my  little  lads,"  says  Lamuse ; 
"  that's  our  luck  all  over  !  Just  as  we  are  going  off !  " 

"  A  damned  country  !  "  says  Fouillade.  In  truth  this 
Northern  climate  is  not  worth  much.  It  drizzles  and 
mizzles,  reeks  and  rains.  And  when  there  is  any  sun, 
it  soon  disappears  in  the  middle  of  this  great  damp 
sky. 

Our  four  days  in  the  trenches  are  finished,  and  the 
relief  will  commence  at  nightfall.  Leisurely  we  get 
ready  for  leaving.  We  fill  and  put  aside  the  knapsacks 
and  bags.  We  give  a  rub  to  the  rifles  and  wrap  them  up. 

It  is  already  four  o'clock.  Darkness  is  falling  quickly, 
and  we  grow  indistinct  to  each  other.  "  Damnation  ! 
Here's  the  rain  !  "  A  few  drops  and  then  the  down- 
pour. Oh,  la,  la,  la  !  We  don  our  capes  and  tent- 
cloths.  We  go  back  unto  the  dug-out,  dabbling,  and 
gathering  mud  on  our  knees,  hands,  and  elbows,  for  the 
bottom  of  the  trench  is  getting  sticky.  Once  inside,  we 
have  hardly  time  to  light  a  candle,  stuck  on  a  bit  of 
stone,  and  to  shiver  all  round — "  Come  on,  en  route  !  " 

We  hoist  ourselves  into  the  wet  and  windy  darkness 
outside.  I  can  dimly  see  Poterloo's  powerful  shoulders  ; 


1 64  UNDER  FIRE 

in  the  ranks  we  are  always  side  by  side.  When  we  get 
going  I  call  to  him,  "  Are  you  there,  old  chap  ?  " 
"  Yes,  in  front  of  you,"  he  cries  to  me,  turning  round. 
As  he  turns  he  gets  a  buffet  in  the  face  from  wind  and 
rain,  but  he  laughs.  His  happy  face  of  the  morning 
abides  with  him.  No  downpour  shall  rob  him  of  the 
content  that  he  carries  in  his  strong  and  steadfast  heart ; 
no  evil  night  put  out  the  sunshine  that  I  saw  possess 
his  thoughts  some  hours  ago. 

We  march,  and  jostle  each  other,  and  stumble.  The 
rain  is  continuous,  and  water  runs  in  the  bottom  of  the 
trench.  The  floor-gratings  yield  as  the  soil  becomes 
soaked ;  some  of  them  slope  to  right  or  left  and  we  skid 
on  them.  In  the  dark,  too,  one  cannot  see  them,  so 
that  we  miss  them  at  the  turnings  and  put  our  feet  into 
holes  full  of  water. 

Even  in  the  greyness  of  the  night  I  will  not  lose  sight 
of  the  slaty  shine  of  Poterloo's  helmet,  which  streams 
like  a  roof  under  the  torrent,  nor  of  the  broad  back  that 
is  adorned  with  a  square  of  glistening  oilskin.  I  lock 
my  step  in  his,  and  from  time  to  time  I  question  him 
and  he  answers  me — always  in  good  humour,  always 
serene  and  strong. 

When  there  are  no  more  of  the  wooden  floor-gratings, 
we  tramp  in  the  thick  mud.  It  is  dark  now.  There 
is  a  sudden  halt  and  I  am  thrown  on  Poterloo.  Up 
higher  we  hear  half-angry  reproaches — "  What  the  devil, 
will  you  get  on  ?  We  shall  get  broken  up  !  " 

"  I  can't  get  my  trotters  unstuck  !  "  replies  a  pitiful 
voice. 

The  engulfed  one  gets  clear  at  last,  and  we  have  to 
run  to  overtake  the  rest  of  the  company.  We  begin  to 
pant  and  complain,  and  bluster  against  those  who  are 
leading.  Our  feet  go  do\vn  haphazard ;  we  stumble  and 
hold  ourselves  up  by  the  walls,  so  that  our  hands  are 
plastered  with  mud.  The  march  becomes  a  stampede, 
full  of  the  noise  of  metal  things  and  of  oaths. 

In  redoubled  rain  there  is  a  second  halt;  some  one 
has  fallen,  and  the  hubbub  is  general.  He  picks  him- 


THE  DOORWAY  165 

self  up  and  we  are  off  again.  I  exert  myself  to  follow 
Poterloo's  helmet  closely  that  gleams  feebly  in  the 
night  before  my  eyes,  and  I  shout  from  time  to  time, 
"  All  right  ?  " — "  Yes,  yes,  all  right,"  he  replies,  puffing 
and  blowing,  and  his  voice  always  singsong  and  resonant. 

Our  knapsacks,  tossed  in  this  rolling  race  under  the 
assault  of  the  elements,  drag  and  hurt  our  shoulders. 
The  trench  is  blocked  by  a  recent  landslide,  and  we 
plunge  unto  it.  We  have  to  tear  our  feet  out  of  the 
soft  aftd  clinging  earth,  lifting  them  high  at  each  step. 
Then,  when  this  crossing  is  laboriously  accomplished, 
we  topple  down  again  into  the  slippery  stream,  in  the 
bottom  of  which  are  two  narrow  ruts,  boot-worn,  which 
hold  one's  foot  like  a  vice,  and  there  are  pools  into  which 
it  goes  with  a  great  splash.  In  one  place  we  must  stoop 
very  low  to  pass  under  a  heavy  and  glutinous  bridge 
that  crosses  the  trench,  and  we  only  get  through  with 
difficulty.  It  obliges  us  to  kneel  in  the  mud,  to  flatten 
ourselves  on  the  ground,  and  to  crawl  on  all  fours  for  a 
few  paces.  A  little  farther  there  are  evolutions  to  per- 
form as  we  grasp  a  post  that  the  sinking  of  the  ground 
has  set  aslope  across  the  middle  of  the  fairway. 

We  come  to  a  trench-crossing.  "  Allans,  forward  ! 
Look  out  for  yourselves,  boys  !  "  says  the  adjutant, 
who  has  flattened  himself  in  a  corner  to  let  us  pass  and 
to  speak  to  us.  "  This  is  a  bad  spot." 

"  We're  done  up,"  shouts  a  voice  so  hoarse  that  I 
cannot  identify  the  speaker. 

"Damn!  I've  enough  of  it,  I'm  stopping  here," 
groans  another,  at  the  end  of  his  wind  and  his  muscle. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  replies  the  adjutant, 
"  No  fault  of  mine,  eh?  Allans,  get  a  move  on,  it's  a 
bad  spot — it  was  shelled  at  the  last  relief  !  " 

We  go  on  through  the  tempest  of  wind  and  water. 
We  seem  to  be  going  ever  down  and  down,  as  in  a  pit. 
We  slip  and  tumble,  butt  into  the  wall  of  the  trench, 
into  "which  we  drive  our  elbows  hard,  so  as  to  throw 
ourselves  upright  again.  Our  going  is  a  sort  of  long 
slide,  on  which  we  keep  up  just  how  and  where  we  can. 


1 66  UNDER  FIRE 

What  matters  is  to  stumble  only  forward,  and  as  straight 
as  possible. 

Where  are  we  ?  I  lift  my  head,  in  spite  of  the  billows 
of  rain,  out  of  this  gulf  where  we  are  struggling. 
Against  the  hardly  discernible  background  of  the  buried 
sky,  I  can  make  out  the  rim  of  the  trench ;  and  there, 
rising  before  my  eyes  all  at  once  and  towering  over  that 
rim,  is  something  like  a  sinister  doorway,  made  of  two 
black  posts  that  lean  one  upon  the  other,  with  something 
hanging  from  the  middle  like  a  torn-off  scalp,  ^fes  the 
doorway. 

"  Forward  !     Forward  !  " 

I  lower  my  head  and  see  no  more ;  but  again  I  hear 
the  feet  that  sink  in  the  mud  and  come  out  again,  the 
rattle  of  the  bayonets,  the  heavy  exclamations,  and  the 
rapid  breathing. 

Once  more  there  is  a  violent  back-eddy.  We  pull  up 
sharply,  and  again  I  am  thrown  upon  Poterloo  and  lean 
on  his  back,  his  strong  back  and  solid,  like  the  trunk  of 
a  tree,  like  healthfulness  and  like  hope.  He  cries  to 
me,  "  Cheer  up,  old  man,  we're  there  !  " 

We  are  standing  still.  It  is  necessary  to  go  back  a 
little — Nom  de  Dieu  I — no,  we  are  moving  on  again  ! 

Suddenly  a  fearful  explosion  falls  on  us.  I  tremble 
to  my  skull ;  a  metallic  reverberation  fills  my  head ;  a 
scorching  and  suffocating  smell  of  sulphur  pierces  my 
nostrils.  The  earth  has  opened  in  front  of  me.  I  feel 
myself  lifted  and  hurled  aside — doubled  up,  choked,  and 
half  blinded  by  this  lightning  and  thunder.  But  still 
my  recollection  is  clear ;  and  in  that  moment  when  I 
looked  wildly  and  desperately  for  my  comrade-in-arms, 
I  saw  his  body  go  up,  erect  and  black,  both  his  arms 
outstretched  to  their  limit,  and  a  flame  in  the  place  ol 
his  head  ! 


XIII 

THE   BIG  WORDS 

BARQUE  notices  that  I  am  writing.  He  comes  towards 
me  on  all  fours  through  the  straw  and  lifts  his  intelligent 
face  to  me,  with  its  reddish  forelock  and  the  little  quick 
eyes  over  which  circumflex  accents  fold  and  unfold 
themselves.  His  mouth  is  twisting  in  all  directions,  by 
reason  of  a  tablet  of  chocolate  that  he  crunches  and  chews, 
while  he  holds  the  moist  stump  of  it  in  his  fist. 

With  his  mouth  full,  and  wafting  me  the  odour  of  a 
sweetshop,  he  stammers — 

"  Tell  me,  you  writing  chap,  you'll  be  writing  later 
about  soldiers,  you'll  be  speaking  of  us,  eh  ?  " 

"  Why  yes,  sonny,  I  shall  talk  about  you,  and  about  the 
boys,  and  about  our  life." 

"  Tell  me,  then  " —  he  indicates  with  a  nod  the  papers 
on  which  I  have  been  making  notes.  With  hovering 
pencil  I  watch  and  listen  to  him.  He  has  a  question  to 
put  to  me — "  Tell  me,  then,  though  you  needn't  if  you 
don't  want — there's  something  I  want  to  ask  you.  This 
is  it ;  if  you  make  the  common  soldiers  talk  in  your  book, 
are  you  going  to  make  them  talk  like  the}^  do  talk,  or  shall 
you  put  it  all  straight — into  pretty  talk?  It's  about 
the  big  words  that  we  use.  For  after  all,  now,  besides 
falling  out  sometimes  and  blackguarding  each  other, 
you'll  never  hear  two  poilus  open  their  heads  for  a 
minute  without  saying  and  repeating  things  that  the 
printers  wouldn't  much  like  to  print.  Then  what  ? 
If  you  don't  say  'em,  your  portrait  won't  be  a  lifelike 
one ;  it's  as  if  you  were  going  to  paint  them  and  then 
left  out  one  of  the  gaudiest  colours  wherever  you  found 
it.  All  the  same,  it  isn't  usually  done." 


1 68  UNDER  FIRE 

"  I  shall  put  the  big  words  in  their  place,  dadda,  for 
they're  the  truth." 

"  But  tell  me,  if  you  put  'em  in,  won't  the  people  of 
your  sort  say  you're  a  swine,  without  worrying  about 
the  truth?  * 

"  Very  likely,  but  I  shall  do  it  all  the  same,  without 
worrying  about  those  people." 

"  Do  you  want  my  opinion  ?  Although  I  know  nothing 
about  books,  it's  brave  to  do  that,  because  it  isn't  usually 
done,  and  it'll  be  spicy  if  you  dare  do  it — but  you'll  find 
it  hard  when  it  comes  to  it,  you're  too  polite.  That's 
just  one  of  the  faults  I've  found  in  you  since  we've 
known  each  other ;  that,  and  also  that  dirty  habit  you've 
got,  when  they're  serving  brandy  out  to  us,  you  pretend 
it'll  do  you  harm,  and  instead  of  giving  your  share  to  a 
pal,  you  go  and  pour  it  on  your  head  to  wash  your  scalp." 


XIV 

OF    BURDENS 

AT  the  end  of  the  yard  of  the  Muets  farm,  among  the 
outbuildings,  the  barn  gapes  like  a  cavern.  It  is  always 
caverns  for  us,  even  in  houses  !  When  you  have  crossed 
the  yard,  where  the  manure  yields  underfoot  with  a 
spongy  sound,  or  have  gone  round  it  instead  on  the 
narrow  paved  path  of  difficult  equilibrium,  and  when  you 
have  arrived  at  the  entrance  to  the  barn,  you  can  see 
nothing  at  all. 

Then,  if  you  persist,  you  make  out  a  misty  hollow 
where  equally  misty  and  dark  lumps  are  asquat  or 
prone  or  wandering  from  one  corner  to  another.  At  the 
back,  on  the  right  and  on  the  left,  the  pale  gleams  of  two 
candles,  each  with  the  round  halo  of  a  distant  moon, 
allow  you  at  last  to  make  out  the  human  shape  of  these 
masses,  whose  mouths  emit  either  steam  or  thick 
smoke. 

Our  hazy  retreat,  which  I  allow  carefully  to  swallow 
me  whole,  is  a  scene  of  excitement  this  evening.  We 
leave  for  the  trenches  to-morrow  morning,  and  the 
nebulous  tenants  of  the  barn  are  beginning  to  pack  up. 

Although  darkness  falls  on  my  eyes  and  chokes  them 
as  I  come  in  from  the  pallid  evening,  I  still  dodge  the 
snares  spread  over  the  ground  by  water-bottles,  mess- 
tins  and  weapons,  but  I  butt  full  into  the  loaves  that  are 
packed  together  exactly  in  the  middle,  like  the  paving 
of  a  yard.  I  reach  my  corner.  Something  alive  is 
there,  with  a  huge  back,  fleecy  and  rounded,  squatting 
and  stooping  over  a  collection  of  little  things  that  glitter 
on  the  ground,  and  I  tap  the  shoulder  upholstered  in' 
sheepskin.  The  being  turns  round,  and  by  the  dull  and 

169 


170  UNDER  FIRE 

fitful  gleam  of  a"  candle  which  a  bayonet  stuck  in  the 
ground  upholds,  I  see  one  half  of  a  face,  an  eye,  the  end 
of  a  moustache,  and  the  corner  of  a  half-open  mouth. 
It  growls  in  a  friendly  way,  and  resumes  the  inspection 
of  its  possessions. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  " 

"  I'm  fixing  things,  and  clearing  up." 

The  quasi-brigand  who  appears  to  be  checking  his 
booty,  is  my  comrade  Volpatte.  He  has  folded  his  tent- 
cloth  in  four  and  placed  it  on  his  bed — that  is,  on  the 
truss  of  straw  assigned  to  him — and  on  this  carpet  he 
has  emptied  and  displayed  the  contents  of  his  pockets. 

And  it  is  quite  a  shop  that  he  broods  over  with  a 
housewife's  solicitous  eyes,  watchful  and  jealous,  lest 
some  one  walks  over  him.  With  my  eye  I  tick  off  his 
copious  exhibition. 

Alongside  his  handkerchief,  pipe,  tobacco-pouch 
(which  also  contains  a  not  e-book),  knife,  purse,  and 
pocket  pipe-lighter,  which  comprise  the  necessary  and 
indispensable  groundwork,  here  are  two  leather  laces 
twisted  like  earthworms  round  a  watch  enclosed  in  a 
case  of  transparent  celluloid,  which  has  curiously  dulled 
and  blanched  with  age.  Then  a  little  round  mirror,  and 
another  square  one ;  this  last,  though  broken,  is  of 
better  quality,  and  bevel-edged.  A  flask  of  essence  of 
turpentine,  a  flask  of  mineral  oil  nearly  empty,  and  a 
third  flask,  empty.  A  German  belt-plate,  bearing  the 
device,  "  Gott  mit  uns  " ;  a  dragoon's  tassel  of  similar 
origin;  half  wrapped  in  paper,  an  aviator's  arrow  in 
the  form  of  a  steel  pencil  and  pointed  like  a  needle ; 
folding  scissors  and  a  combined  knife  and  fork  of  similar 
pliancy ;  a  stump  of  pencil  and  one  of  candle ;  a  tube 
of  aspirin,  also  containing  opium  tablets,  and  several 
tin  boxes. 

Observing  that  my  inspection  of  his  personal  posses- 
sions is  detailed,  Volpatte  helps  me  to  identify  certain 
items — 

"That,  that's  a  leather  officer's  glove.  I  cut  the 
fingers  off  to  stop  up  the  mouth  of  my  blunderbuss  with ; 


OF  BURDENS  .         171 

that,  that's  telephone  wire,  the  only  thing  to  fasten 
buttons  on  your  greatcoat  with  if  you  want  'em  to  stay 
there ;  and  here,  inside  here,  d'you  know  what  that  is  ? 
White  thread,  good  stuff,  not  what  you're  put  off  with 
when  they  give  you  new  things,  a  sort  of  macaroni  an 
fromage  that  you  pull  out  with  a  fork;  and  there's  a 
set  of  needles  on  a  postcard.  The  safety-pins,  they're 
there,  separate." 

"  And  here,  that's  the  paper  department.  Quite  a 
library." 

There  is  indeed  a  surprising  collection  of  papers  among 
the  things  disgorged  by  Volpatte's  pockets — the  violet 
packet  of  writing-paper,  whose  unworthy  printed  enve- 
lope is  out  at  heels ;  an  Army  squad-book,  of  which  the 
dirty  and  desiccated  binding,  like  the  skin  of  an  old 
tramp,  has  perished  and  shrunk  all  over ;  a  note-book 
with  a  chafed  moleskin  cover,  and  packed  with  papers 
and  photographs,  those  of  his  wife  and  children  enthroned 
in  the  middle. 

Out  of  this  bundle  of  yellowed  and  darkened  papers 
Volpatte  extracts  this  photograph  and  shows  it  to 
me  once  more.  I  renew  acquaintance  with  Madame 
Volpatte  and  her  generous  bosom,  her  mild  and  mellow 
features ;  and  with  the  two  little  boys  in  white  collars, 
the  elder  slender,  the  younger  round  as  a  ball. 

"  I've  only  got  photos  of  old  people,"  says  Biquet, 
who  is  twenty  years  old.  He  shows  us  a  portrait, 
holding  it  close  to  the  candle,  of  two  aged  people  who 
look  at  us  with  the  same  well-behaved  air  as  Volpatte's 
children . 

"  I've  got  mine  with  me,  too,"  says  another;  "  I 
always  stick  to  the  photo  of  the  nestlings." 

"  Course  !  Every  man  carries  his  crowd  along,"  adds 
another. 

"  It's  funny,"  Barque  declares,  "  a  portrait  wears 
itself  out  just  with  being  looked  at.  You  haven't 
got  to  gape  at  it  too  often,  or  be  too  long  about  it ;  in 
the  long  run,  I  don't  know  what  happens,  but  the  like- 
ness mizzles." 


172  UNDER  FIRE 

"  You're  right,"  says  Blaire,  "  I've  found  it  like  that 
too,  exactly." 

"  I've  got  a  map  of  the  district  as  well,  among  my 
papers,"  Volpatte  continues.  He  unfolds  it  to  the 
light.  Illegible  and  transparent  at  the  creases,  it  looks 
like  one  of  those  window-blinds  made  of  squares  sewn 
together. 

"  I've  some  newspaper  too  " — he  unfolds  a  newspaper 
article  upon  poilus — "  and  a  book  " — a  twopence- 
halfpenny  novel,  called  Twice  a  Maid — "  Tiens,  another 
newspaper  cutting  from  the  Etampes  Bee.  Don't  know 
why  I've  kept  that,  but  there  must  be  a  reason  some- 
where. I'll  think  about  it  when  I  have  time.  And  then, 
my  pack  of  cards,  and  a  set  of  draughts,  with  a  paper 
board  and  the  pieces  made  of  sealing-wax." 

Barque  comes  up,  regards  the  scene,  and  says,  "  I've 
a  lot  more  things  than  that  in  my  pockets."  He  ad- 
dresses himself  to  Volpatte.  "  Have  you  got  a  Boche 
pay-book,  louse-head,  some  phials  of  iodine,  and  a 
Browning?  I've  all  that,  and  two  knives." 

"  I've  no  revolver,"  says  Volpatte,  "  nor  a  Boche 
pay-book,  but  I  could  have  had  two  knives  or  even  ten 
knives ;  but  I  only  need  one." 

"  That  depends,"  says  Barque.  "  And  have  you  any 
mechanical  buttons,  fathead?  " 

"  I  haven't  any,"  cries  Becuwe. 

"  The  private  can't  do  without  'em,"  Lamuse  asserts. 
"  Without  them,  to  make  your  braces  stick  to  your 
breeches,  the  game's  up." 

"  And  I've  always  got  in  my  pocket,"  says  Blaire, 
"  so's  they're  within  reach,  my  case  of  rings."  He 
brings  it  out,  wrapped  up  in  a  gas-mask  bag,  and  shakes 
it.  The  files  ring  inside,  and  we  hear  the  jingle  of 
aluminium  rings  in  the  rough. 

"  I've  always  got  string,"  says  Biquet,  "  that's  the 
useful  stuff !  " 

"  Not  so  useful  as  nails,"  says  Pepin,  and  he  shows 
three  in  his  hand,  big,  little,  and  average. 

One  by  one  the  others  come  to  join  in  the  conversation, 


OF  BURDENS  173 

to  chaffer  and  cadge.  We  are  getting  used  to  the  half- 
darkness.  But  Corporal  Salavert,  who  has  a  well-earned 
reputation  for  dexterity,  makes  a  hanging  lamp  with  a 
candle  and  a  tray,  the  latter  contrived  from  a  Camembert 
box  and  some  wire.  We  light  up,  and  around  its 
illumination  each  man  tells  what  he  has  in  his  pockets, 
with  parental  preferences  and  bias. 

"  To  begin  with,  how  many  have  we  ?  ' 

"  How  many  pockets  ?  Eighteen,"  says  some  one — 
Cocon,  of  course,  the  man  of  figures. 

"  Eighteen  pockets  !  You're  codding,  rat-nose,"  says 
big  Lamuse. 

"  Exactly  eighteen,"  replies  Cocon.  "  Count  them,  if 
you're  as  clever  as  all  that." 

Lamuse  is  willing  to  be  guided  by  reason  in  the  matter, 
and  putting  his  two  hands  near  the  light  so  as  to  count 
accurately,  he  tells  off  his  great  brick-red  fingers  :  Two 
pockets  in  the  back  of  the  greatcoat ;  one  for  the  first- 
aid  packet,  which  is  used  for  tobacco ;  two  inside  the 
greatcoat  in  front ;  two  outside  it  on  each  side,  with 
flaps ;  three  in  the  trousers,  and  even  three  and  a  half, 
counting  the  little  one  in  front. 

"  I'll  bet  a  compass  on  it,"  says  Farfadet. 

"  And  I,  my  bits  of  tinder." 

"  I,"  says  Tirloir,  "  I'll  bet  a  teeny  whistle  that  my 
wife  sent  me  when  she  said,  '  If  you're  wounded  in  the 
battle  you  must  whistle,  so  that  your  comrades  will 
come  and  save  your  life.'  ' 

We  laugh  at  the  artless  words.  Tulacque  intervenes, 
and  says  indulgently  to  Tirloir,  "  They  don't  know  what 
war  is  back  there ;  and  if  you  started  talking  about  the 
rear,  it'd  be  you  that'd  talk  rot." 

"  We  won't  count  that  pocket,"  says  Salavert,  "  it's 
too  small.  That  makes  ten." 

"  In  the  jacket,  four.  That  only  makes  fourteen  after 
all." 

"  There  are  the  two  cartridge  pockets,  the  two  new 
ones  that  fasten  with  straps." 

"  Sixteen,"  says  Salavert. 


174  UNDER  FIRE 

"  Now,  blockhead  and  son  of  misery,  turn  my  jacket 
back.  You  haven't  counted  those  two  pockets.  Now 
then,  what  more  do  you  want  ?  And  yet  they're 
just  in  the  usual  place.  They're  your  civilian  pockets, 
where  you  shoved  your  nose-rag,  your  tobacco,  and  the 
address  where  you'd  got  to  deliver  your  parcel  when  you 
were  a  messenger." 

"  Eighteen  !  "  says  Salavert,  as  grave  as  a  judge. 
"  There  are  eighteen,  and  no  mistake ;  that's  done  it." 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation,  some  one  makes  a 
series  of  noisy  stumbles  on  the  stones  of  the  threshold 
with  the  sound  of  a  horse  pawing  the  ground — and 
blaspheming.  Then,  after  a  silence,  the  barking  of  a 
sonorous  and  authoritative  voice — "  Hey,  inside  there  ! 
Getting  ready?  Everything  must  be  fixed  up  this 
evening  and  packed  tight  and  solid,  you  know.  Going 
into  the  first  line  this  time,  and  we  may  have  a  hot  time 
of  it." 

"  Right  you  are,  right  you  are,  mon  adjutant,"  heed- 
less voices  answer. 

"  How  do  you  write  '  Arnesse  '  ?  "  asks  Benech,  who 
is  on  all  fours,  at  work  with  a  pencil  and  an  envelope. 
While  Cocon  spells  "  Ernest  "  for  him  and  the  voice 
of  the  vanished  adjutant  is  heard  afar  repeating  his 
harangue,  Blaire  picks  up  the  thread,  and  says — 

'  You  should  always,  my  children — listen  to  what  I'm 
telling  you — put  your  drinking-cup  in  your  pocket.  I've 
tried  to  stick  it  everywhere  else,  but  only  the  pocket's 
really  practical,  you  take  my  word.  If  you're  in  march- 
ing order,  or  if  you've  doffed  your  kit  to  navigate  the 
trenches  either,  you've  always  got  it  under  your  fist 
when  chances  come,  like  when  a  pal  who's  got  some 
gargle,  and  feels  good  towards  you  says,  '  Lend  us  your 
cup,'  or  a  peddling  wine-seller,  either.  My  young  bucks, 
listen  to  what  I  tell  you ;  you'll  always  find  it  good — 
put  your  cup  in  your  pocket." 

"  No  fear,"  says  Lamuse,  "  you  won't  see  me  put  my 
cup  in  my  pocket ;  damned  silly  idea,  no  more  or  less. 
I'd  a  sight  sooner  sling  it  on  a  strap  with  a  hook." 


OF  BURDENS  175 

"  Fasten  it  on  a  greatcoat  button,  like  the  gas-helmet 
bag,  that's  a  lot  better ;  for  suppose  you  take  off  your 
accoutrements  and  there's  any  wine  passing,  you  look 
soft." 

"  I've  got  a  Boche  drinking-cup,"  says  Barque ; 
"  it's  flat,  so  it  goes  into  a  side  pocket  if  you  like,  or  it 
goes  very  well  into  a  cartridge-pouch,  once  you've  fired 
the  damn  things  off  or  pitched  them  into  a  bag." 

"A  Boche  cup's  nothing  special,"  says  Pepin;  "it 
won't  stand  up,  it's  just  lumber." 

"  You  wait  and  see,  maggot-snout,"  says  Tirette,  who 
is  something  of  a  psychologist.  "  If  we  attack  this  time, 
same  as  the  adjutant  seemed  to  hint,  perhaps  you'll 
find  a  Boche  cup,  and  then  it'll  be  something  special !  " 

"  The  adjutant  may  have  said  that,"  Eudore  observes, 
"  but  he  doesn't  know." 

"  It  holds  more  than  a  half -pint,  the  Boche  cup," 
remarks  Cocon,  "  seeing  that  the  exact  capacity  of  the 
half-pint  is  marked  in  the  cup  three-quarters  way  up; 
and  it's  always  good  for  you  to  have  a  big  one,  for  if 
you've  got  a  cup  that  only  just  holds  a  half -pint,  then 
so  that  you  can  get  your  half-pint  of  coffee  or  wine  or 
holy  water  or  what  not,  it's  got  to  be  filled  right  up,  and 
they  don't  ever  do  it  at  serving-out,  and  if  they  do,  you 
spill  it." 

"  I  believe  you  that  they  don't  fill  it,"  says  Paradis, 
exasperated  by  the  recollection  of  that  ceremony. 
"  The  quartermaster-sergeant,  he  pours  it  with  his 
blasted  finger  in  your  cup  and  gives  it  two  raps  on  its 
bottom.  Result,  you  get  a  third,  and  your  cup's  in 
mourning  with  three  black  bands  on  top  of  each 
other." 

"  Yes,"  says  Barque,  "  that's  true ;  but  you  shouldn't 
have  a  cup  too  big  either,  because  the  chap  that's  pouring 
it  out  for  you,  he  suspects  you,  and  let's  it  go  in  damned 
drops,  and  so  as  not  to  give  you  more  than  your  measure 
he  gives  you  less,  and  you  can  whistle  for  it,  with  your 
tureen  in  your  fists." 

Volpatte  puts  back  in  his  pockets,  one  by  one,  the 


176  UNDER  FIRE 

items  of  his  display.     When  he  came  to  the  purse,  he 
looked  at  it  with  an  air  of  deep  compassion. 

"  He's  damnably  flat,  poor  chap !  "     He  counted  the' 
contents.     "Three  francs!     My  boy,  I  must  set  about 
feathering  this   nest   again  or   I  shall  be  stony  when 
we  get  back." 

"  You're  not  the  only  one  that's  broken-backed  in  the 
treasury." 

"  The  soldier  spends  more  than  he  earns,  and  don't  you 
forget  it.  I  wonder  what'd  become  of  a  man  that  only 
had  his  pay  ?  " 

.    Paradis  replies  with  concise  simplicity,  "  He'd  kick 
the  bucket." 

"  And  see  here,  look  what  I've  got  in  my  pocket  and 
never  let  go  of  " — Pepin,  with  merry  eyes,  shows  us 
some  silver  table-things.  "  They  belonged,"  he  says, 
"  to  the  ugly  trollop  where  we  were  quartered  at  Grand- 
Rozoy." 

"  Perhaps  they  still  belong  to  her?  " 

Pepin  made  an  uncertain  gesture,  in  which  pride 
mingled  with  modesty;  then,  growing  bolder,  he  smiled 
and  said,  "  /  knew  her,  the  old  sneak.  Certainly,  she'll 
spend  the  rest  of  her  life  looking  in  every  corner  for  her 
silver  things." 

"  For  my  part,"  says  Volpatte,  "  I've  never  been  able 
to  rake  in  more  than  a  pair  of  scissors.  Some  people 
have  the  luck.  I  haven't.  So  naturally  I  watch  'em 
close,  though  I  admit  I've  no  use  for  'em." 

"  I've  pinched  a  few  bits  of  things  here  and  there,  but 
what  of  it?  The  sappers  have  always  left  me  behind 
in  the  matter  of  pinching ;  so  what  about  it  ?  " 

'  You  can  do  what  you  like,  you're  always  got 
at  by  some  one  in  your  turn,  eh,  my  boy  ?  Don't  fret 
about  it." 

"  I  keep  my  wife's  letters,"  says  Blaire. 

"  And  I  send  mine  back  to  her." 

"  And  I  keep  them,  too.  Here  they  are."  Eudore 
exposes  a  packet  of  worn  and  shiny  paper,  whose  grimy 
condition  the  twilight  modestly  veils.  "  I  keep  them. 


OF   BURDENS  177 

Sometimes  I  read  them  again.  When  I'm  cold  and 
humpy,  I  read  'em  again.  It  doesn't  actually  warm  you 
up,  but  it  seems  to." 

There  must  be  a  deep  significance  in  the  curious 
expression,  for  several  men  raise  their  heads  and  say, 
"  Yes,  that's  so." 

By  fits  and  starts  the  conversation  goes  on  in  the 
bosom  of  this  fantastic  barn  and  the  great  moving 
shadows  that  cross  it ;  night  is  heaped  up  in  its  corners, 
and  pointed  by  a  few  scattered  and  sickly  candles. 

I  watch  these  busy  and  burdened  flitters  come  and  go, 
outline  themselves  strangely,  then  stoop  and  slide  down 
to  the  ground ;  they  talk  to  themselves  and  to  each  other, 
their  feet  are  encumbered  by  the  litter.  They  are 
showing  their  riches  to  each  other.  "  Tiens,  look  !  " — 
"  Great  !  "  they  reply  enviously. 

What  they  have  not  got  they  want.  There  are 
treasures  among  the  squad  long|coveted  by  all;  the 
two-litre  water-bottle,  for  instance,  preserved  by 
Barque,  that  a  skilful  rifle-shot  with  a  blank  cartridge 
has  stretched  to  the  capacity  of  two  and  a  half  litres ; 
and  Bertrand's  famous  great  knife  with  the  horn  handle. 

Among  the  heaving  swarm  there  are  sidelong  glances 
that  skim  these  curiosities,  and  then  each  man  resumes 
"  eyes  right,"  devotes  himself  to  his  belongings,  and 
concentrates  upon  getting  it  in  order. 

They  are  mournful  belongings,  indeed.  Everything 
made  for  the  soldier  is  commonplace,  ugly,  and  of 
bad  quality ;  from  his  cardboard  boots,  attached  to  the 
uppers  by  a  criss-cross  of  worthless  thread,  to  his  badly 
cut,  badly  shaped,  and  badly  sewn  clothes,  made  of 
shoddy  and  transparent  cloth — blotting-paper — that 
one  day  of  sunshine  fades  and  an  hour  of  rain  wets 
through,  to  his  emaciated  leathers,  brittle  as  shavings 
and  torn  by  the  buckle  spikes,  to  his  flannel  underwear 
that  is  thinner  than  cotton,  to  his  straw-like  tobacco. 

Marthereau  is  beside  me,  and  he  points  to  our  com- 
rades :  "  Look  at  them,  these  poor  chaps  gaping  into 
their  bags  o'  tricks.  You'd  say  it  was  a  mothers'  meeting, 
N 


1 78  UNDER  FIRE 

ogling  their  kids.  Hark  to  'em.  They're  calling  for  their 
knick-knacks.  Tiens,  that  one,  the  times  he  says  '  My 
knife  ! '  same  as  if  he  was  calling  '  Leon/  or  '  Charles/ 
or  '  'Dolphus.'  And  you  know  it's  impossible  for  them  to 
make  their  load  any  less.  Can't  be  did.  It  isn't  that 
they  don't  want — our  job  isn't  one  that  makes  us  any 
stronger,  eh?  But  they  can't.  Too  proud  of  'em." 

The  burdens  to  be  borne  are  formidable,  and  one 
knows  well  enough,  parbleu,  that  every  item  makes  them 
more  severe,  each  little  addition  is  one  bruise  more. 

For  it  is  not  merely  a  matter  of  what  one  buries  in  his 
pockets  and  pouches.  To  complete  the  burden  there 
is  what  one  carries  on  his  back.  The  knapsack  is  the 
trunk  and  even  the  cupboard ;  and  the  old  soldier  is 
familiar  with  the  art  of  enlarging  it  almost  miraculously 
by  the  judicious  disposal  of  his  household  goods  and 
provisions.  Besides  the  regulation  and  obligatory  con- 
tents— two  tins  of  pressed  beef,  a  dozen  biscuits,  two 
tablets  of  coffee  and  two  packets  of  dried  soup,  the  bag 
of  sugar,  fatigue  smock,  and  spare  boots — we  find  a 
way  of  getting  in  some  pots  of  jam,  tobacco,  chocolate, 
candles,  soft-soled  shoes ;  and  even  soap,  a  spirit  lamp, 
some  solidified  spirit,  and  some  woollen  things.  With 
the  blanket,  sheet,  tent-cloth,  trenching-tool,  water- 
bottle,  and  an  item  of  the  field-cooking  kit,1  the  burden 
gets  heavier  and  taller  and  wider,  monumental  and 
crushing.  And  my  neighbour  says  truly  that  every  time 
he  reaches  his  goal  after  some  miles  of  highway  and 
communication  trenches,  the  poilu  swears  hard  that  the 
next  time  he'll  leave  a  heap  of  things  behind  and  give 
his  shoulders  a  little  relief  from  the  yoke  of  the  knapsack. 
But  every  time  he  is  preparing  for  departure,  he  assumes 
again  the  same  overbearing  and  almost  superhuman  load ; 
he  never  lets  it  go,  though  he  curses  it  always. 

"  There  are  some  bad  boys,"  says  Lamuse,  "  among 
the  skirkers,  that  find  a  way  of  keeping  something  in 

1  There  is  a  complete  set  for  each  squad — stoves,  canvas 
buckets,  coffee-mill,  pan,  etc. — and  each  man  carries  some  item 
on  march. — Tr. 


OF  BURDENS  179 

the  company  wagon  or  the  medical  van.  I  know  one 
that's  got  two  shirts  and  a  pair  of  drawers  in  an  adju- 
tant's canteen l — but,  you  see,  there's  two  hundred  and 
fifty  chaps  in  the  company,  and  they're  all  up  to  the 
dodge  and  not  many  of  'em  can  profit  by  it ;  it's  chiefly 
the  non-coms. ;  the  more  stripes  they've  got,  the  easier 
it  is  to  plant  their  luggage,  not  forgetting  that  the 
commandant  visits  the  wagons  sometimes  without 
warning  and  fires  your  things  into  the  middle  of  the 
road  if  he  finds  'em  in  a  horse-box  where  they've  no 
business — Be  off  with  you  ! — not  to  mention  the  bully- 
ragging and  the  clink." 

"  In  the  early  days  it  was  all  right,  my  boy.  There 
were  some  chaps — I've  seen  'em — who  stuck  their 
bags  and  even  their  knapsacks  in  baby-carts  and 
pushed  'em  along  the  road." 

"  Ah,  not  half  !  Those  were  the  good  times  of  the 
war.  But  all  that's  changed." 

Volpatte,  deaf  to  all  the  talk,  muffled  in  his  blanket 
as  if  in  a  shawl  which  makes  him  look  like  an  old  witch, 
revolves  round  an  object  that  lies  on  the  ground.  "  I'm 
wondering,"  he  says,  addressing  no  one,  "  whether  to 
take  away  this  damned  tin  stove.  It's  the  only  one  in 
the  squad  and  I've  always  carried  it.  Oui,  but  it  leaks 
like  a  cullender."  He  cannot  decide,  and  makes  a 
really  pathetic  picture  of  separation. 

Barque  watches  him  obliquely,  and  makes  fun  of 
him.  We  hear  him  say,  "  Senile  dodderer  !  "  But  he 
pauses  in  his  chaffing  to  say,  "  After  all,  if  we  were  in  his 
shoes  we  should  be  equally  fatheaded." 

Volpatte  postpones  his  decision  till  later.  "  I'll  see 
about  it  in  the  morning,  when  I'm  loading  the  camel's 
back." 

After  the  inspection  and  recharging  of  pockets,  it  is  the 
turn  of  the  bags,  and  then  of  the  cartridge-pouches,  and 
Barque  holds  forth  on  the  way  to  make  the  'regulation 
two  hundred  cartridges  go  into  the  three  pouches.  In 

Cantine  a  vivres,  chest  containing  two   days'   rations   and 
cooking  utensils  for  four  or  five  officers. — Tr. 


i8o  UNDER  FIRE 

the  lump  it  is  impossible.  They  must  be  unpacked  and 
placed  side  by  side  upright,  head  against  foot.  Thus 
can  one  cram  each  pouch  without  leaving  any  space, 
and  make  himself  a  waistband  that  weighs  over  twelve 
pounds. 

Rifles  have  been  cleaned  already.  One  looks  to  the 
swathing  of  the  breech  and  the  plugging  of  the  muzzle, 
precautions  which  trench-dirt  renders  indispensable. 

How  every  rifle  can  easily  be  recognised  is  discussed. 

"  I've  made  some  nicks  in  the  sling.  See,  I've  cut 
into  the  edge." 

"  I've  twisted  a  bootlace  round  the  top  of  the  sling, 
and  that  way,  I  can  tell  it  by  touch  as  well  as  seeing." 

"  I  use  a  mechanical  button.  No  mistake  about  that. 
In  the  dark  I  can  find  it  at  once  and  say,  '  That's  my 
pea-shooter.'  Because,  you  know,  there  are  some  boys 
that  don't  bother  themselves ;  they  just  roll  around 
while  the  pals  are  cleaning  theirs,  and  then  they're 
devilish  quick  at  putting  a  quiet  fist  on  a  popgun  that's 
been  cleaned;  and  then  after  they've  even  the  cheek 
to  go  and  say,  '  Mon  capitaine,  I've  got  a  -rifle  that's  a 
bit  of  all  right/  I'm  not  on  in  that  act.  It's  the  D 
system,  my  old  wonder — a  damned  dirty  dodge,  and 
there  are  times  when  I'm  fed  up  with  it,  and  more." 

And  thus,  though  their  rifles  are  all  alike,  they  are  as 
different  as  their  handwriting. 

##**## 

"  It's  curious  and  funny,"  says  Marthereau  to  me, 
"  we're  going  up  to  the  trenches  to-morrow,  and  there's 
nobody  drunk  yet,  nor  that  way  inclined.  Ah,  I  don't 
say,"  he  concedes  at  once,  "  but  what  those  two  there 
aren't  a  bit  fresh,  nor  a  little  elevated;  without  being 
absolutely  blind,  they're  somewhat  boozed,  pr'aps — 

"  It's  Poitron  and  Poilpot,  of  Broyer's  squad." 

They  are  lying  down  and  talking  in  a  low  voice.  We 
can  make  out  the  round  nose  of  one,  which  stands  out 
equally  with  his  mouth,  close  by  a  candle,  and  with  his 
hand,  whose  lifted  finger  makes  little  explanatory  signs, 
faithfully  followed  by  the  shadow  it  casts. 


OF  BURDENS  181 

"  I  know  how  to  light  a  fire,  but  I  don't  know  how 
to  light  it  again  when  it's  gone  out,"  declares  Poitron. 

"  Ass  !  "  says  Poilpot,  "  if  you  know  how  to  light 
it  you  know  how  to  relight  it,  seeing  that  if  you  light 
it,  it's  because  it's  gone  out,  and  you  might  say^that 
you're  relighting  it  when  you're  lighting  it." 

"  That's  all  rot.  I'm  not  mathematical,  and  to  hell 
with  the  gibberish  you  talk.  I  tell  you  and  I  tell  you 
again  that  when  it  comes  to  lighting  a  fire,  I'm  there,  but 
to  light  it  again  when  it's  gone  out,  I'm  no  good.  I  can't 
speak  any  straighter  than  that." 

I  do  not  catch  the  insistent  retort  of  Poilpot,  but — 

"  But,  you  damned  numskull,"  gurgles  Poitron, 
"  haven't  I  told  you  thirty  times  that  I  can't  ?  You 
must  have  a  pig's  head,  anyway  !  " 

Marthereau  confides  to  me,  "  I've  heard  about  enough 
of  that."  Obviously  he  spoke  too  soon  just  now. 

A  sort  of  fever,  provoked  by  farewell  libations, 
prevails  in  the  wretched  straw-spread  hole  where  our 
tribe — some  upright  and  hesitant,  others  kneeling  and 
hammering  like  colliers — is  mending,  stacking,  and  sub- 
duing its  provisions,  clothes,  and  tools.  There  is  a 
wordy  growling,  a  riot  of  gesture.  From  the  smoky 
glimmers,  rubicund  faces  start  forth  in  relief,  and  dark 
hands  move  about  in  the  shadows  like  marionettes. 

In  the  barn  next  to  ours,  and  separated  from  it  only 
by  a  wall  of  a  man's  height,  arise  tipsy  shouts.  Two 
men  in  there  have  fallen  upon  each  other  with  fierce 
violence  and  anger.  The  air  is  vibrant  with  the  coarsest 
expressions  the  human  ear  ever  hears.  But  one  of  the 
disputants,  a  stranger  from  another  squad,  is  ejected 
by  the  tenants,  and  the  flow  of  curses  from  the  other 
grows  feebler  and  expires. 

"  Same  as  us,"  says  Marthereau  with  a  certain  pride, 
"  they  hold  themselves  in  !  " 

It  is  true.  Thanks  to  Bertrand,  who  is  possessed 
by  a  hatred  of  drunkenness,  of  the  fatal  poison  that 
gambles  with  multitudes,  our  squad  is  one  of  the  least 
befouled  by  wine  and  brandy. 


1 82  UNDER  FIRE 

They  are  shouting  and  singing  and  talking  all  around. 
And  they  laugh  endlessly,  for  in  the  human  mechanism 
laughter  is  the  sound  of  wheels  that  work,  of  deeds  that 
are  done. 

One  tries  to  fathom  certain  faces  that  show  up  in 
provocative  relief  among  this  menagerie  of  shadows,  this 
aviary  of  reflections.  But  one  cannot.  They  are  visible, 
but  you  can  see  nothing  in  the  depth  of  them. 

****** 

"  Ten  o'clock  already,  friends,"  says  Bertrand. 
"  We'll  finish  the  camel's  humps  off  to-morrow.  Time 
for  by-by."  Each  one  then  slowly  retires  to  rest,  but  the 
jabbering  hardly  pauses.  Man  takes  all  things  easily 
when  he  is  under  no  obligation  to  hurry.  The  men  go 
to  and  fro,  each  with  some  object  in  his  hand,  and  along 
the  wall  I  watch  Eudore's  huge  shadow  gliding,  as  he 
passes  in  front  of  a  candle  with  two  little  bags  of  camphor 
hanging  from  the  end  of  his  fingers. 

Lamuse  is  throwing  himself  about  in  search  of  a 
good  position  ;  he  seems  ill  at  ease.  To-day,  obviously, 
and  whatever  his  capacity  may  be,  he  has  eaten  too 
much. 

"  Some  of  us  want  to  sleep  !  Shut  them  up,  you  lot 
of  louts  !  "  cries  Mesnil  Joseph  from  his  litter. 

This  entreaty  has  a  subduing  effect  for  a  moment, 
but  does  not  stop  the  burble  of  voices  nor  the  passing  to 
and  fro. 

"  We're  going  up  to-morrow,  it's  true,"  says  Paradis, 
"  and  in  the  evening  we  shall  go  into  the  first  line.  But 
nobody's  thinking  about  it.  We  know  it,  and  that's  all." 

Gradually  each  has  regained  his  place.  I  have 
stretched  myself  on  the  straw,  and  Marthereau  wraps 
himself  up  by  my  side. 

Enter  an  enormous  bulk,  taking  great  pains  not  to 
make  a  noise.  It  is  the  field-hospital  sergeant,  a  Marist 
Brother,  a  huge  bearded  simpleton  in  spectacles.  When 
he  has  taken  off  his  greatcoat  and  appears  in  his  jacket, 
you  are  conscious  that  he  feels  awkward  about  showing 
his  legs.  We  see  that  it  hurries  discreetly,  this  silhouette 


OF  BURDENS  183 

of   a   bearded   hippopotamus.     He   blows,   sighs,    and 
mutters. 

Marthereau  indicates  him  with  a  nod  of  his  head,  and 
says  to  me,  "  Look  at  him.  Those  chaps  have  always 
got  to  be  talking  fudge.  When  we  ask  him  what  he 
does  in  civil  life,  he  won't  say  '  I'm  a  school  teacher  ' ; 
he  says,  leering  at  you  from  under  his  specs  with  the 
half  of  his  eyes,  '  I'm  a  professor/  When  he  gets  up 
very  early  to  go  to  mass,  he  says,  '  I've  got  belly-ache, 
I  must  go  and  take  a  turn  round  the  corner  and  no 
mistake/  " 

A  little  farther  off,  Papa  Ramure  is  talking  of  his 
homeland :  "  Where  I  live,  it's  just  a  bit  of  a  hamlet, 
no  great  shakes.  There's  my  old  man  there,  seasoning 
pipes  all  day  long ;  whether  he's  working  or  resting,  he 
blows  his  smoke  up  to  the  sky  or  into  the  smoke  of  the 
stove." 

I  listen  to  this  rural  idyll,  and  it  takes  suddenly  a 
specialised  and  technical  character  :  "  That's  why  he 
makes  a  paillon.  D'you  know  what  a  paillon  is  ?  You 
take  a  stalk  of  green  corn  and  peel  it.  You  split  it  in 
two  and  then  in  two  again,  and  you  have  different 
sizes.  Then  with  a  thread  and  the  four  slips  of  straw, 
he  goes  round  the  stem  of  his  pipe " 

The  lesson  ceases  abruptly,  there  being  no  apparent 
audience. 

There  are  only  two  candles  alight.  A  wide  wing  of 
darkness  overspreads  the  prostrate  collection  of  men. 

Private  conversation  still  flickers  along  the  primitive 
dormitory,  and  some  fragments  of  it  reach  my  ears. 
Just  now,  Papa  Ramure  is  abusing  the  commandant. 

"  The  commandant,  old  man,  with  his  four  bits  of 
gold  string,  I've  noticed  he  don't  know  how  to  smoke. 
He  sucks  all  out  at  his  pipes,  and  he  burns  'em.  It 
isn't  a  mouth  he's  got  in  his  head,  it's  a  snout.  The 
wood  splits  and  scorches,  and  instead  of  being  wood, 
it's  coal.  Clay  pipes,  they'll  stick  it  better,  but  he  roasts 
'em  brown  all  the  same.  Talk  about  a  snout  !  So, 
old  man,  mind  what  I'm  telling  you,  he'll  come  to  what 


1 84  UNDER  FIRE 

doesn't  ever  happen  often  ;  through  being  forced  to  get 
white-hot  and  baked  to  the  marrow,  his  pipe'll  explode 
in  his  nose  before  everybody.  You'll  see." 

Little  by  little,  peace,  silence,  and  darkness  take 
possession  of  the  barn  and  enshroud  the  hopes  and  the 
sighs  of  its  occupants.  The  lines  of  identical  bundles 
formed  by  these  beings  rolled  up  side  by  side  in  their 
blankets  seem  a  sort  of  huge  organ,  ^vhich  sends  forth 
diversified  snoring. 

With  his  nose  already  in  his  blanket,  I  hear  Marthereau 
talking  to  me  about  himself  :  "  I'm  a  buyer  of  rags,  you 
know,"  he  says,  "  or  to  put  it  better,  a  rag  merchant. 
But  me^Tm  wholesale ;  I  buy  from  the  little  rag-and- 
bone  men  of  the  streets,  and  I  have  a  shop — a  warehouse, 
mind  you  ! — which  I  use  as  a  depot.  I  deal  in  all  kinds 
of  rags,  from  linen  to  jam-pots,  but  principally  brush- 
handles,  sacks,  and  old  shoes ;  and  naturally,  I  make  a 
speciality  of  rabbit -skins." 

And  a  little  later  I  still  hear  him  :  "As  for  me,  little 
and  queer-shaped  as  I  am,  all  the  same  I  can  carry  a 
bin  of  two  hundred  pounds'  weight  to  the  warehouse, 
up  the  steps,  and  my  feet  in  sabots.  Once  I  had  a  to-do 
with  a  person " 

"  What  I  can't  abide,"  cries  Fouillade,  all  of  a  sudden, 
"  is  the  exercises  and  marches  they  give  us  when  we're 
resting.  My  back's  mincemeat,  and  I  can't  get  a  snooze 
even,  I'm  that  cramped." 

There  is  a  metallic  noise  in  Volpatte's  direction. 
He  has  decided  to  take  the  stove,  though  he  chides  it 
constantly  for  the  fatal  fault  of  its  perforations. 

One  who  is  but  half  asleep  groans,  "  Oh,  la,  la  !  When 
will  this  war  finish  !  " 

A  cry  of  stubborn  and  mysterious  rebellion  bursts 
forth—"  They'd  take  the  very  skin  off  us  !  " 

There  follows  a  single,  "  Don't  fret  yourself  !  "  as 
darkly  inconsequent  as  the  cry  of  revolt. 

I  wake  up  a  long  time  afterwards,  as  two  o'clock  is 
striking ;  and  in  a  pallor  of  light  which  doubtless  comes 
from  the  moon,  I  see  the  agitated  silhouette  of  Pinegal. 


OF  BURDENS  185 

A  cock  has  crowed  afar.  Pinegal  raises  himself  half- 
way to  a  sitting  position,  and  I  hear  his  husky  voice : 
"  Well  now,  it's  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  there's  a 
cock  loosing  his  jaw.  He's  blind  drunk,  that  cock." 
He  laughs,  and  repeats,  "  He's  blind,  that  cock,"  and 
he  twists  himself  again  into  the  woollens,  and  resumes 
his  slumber  with  a  gurgle  in  which  snores  are  mingled 
with  merriment. 

Cocon  has  been  wakened  by  Pinegal.  The  man  of 
figures  therefore  thinks  aloud,  and  says :  "  The  squad 
had  seventeen  men  when  it  set  off  for  the  war.  It  has 
seventeen  also  at  present,  with  the  stop-gaps.  Each 
man  has  already  worn  out  four  greatcoats,  one  of  the 
original  blue,  and  three  cigar-smoke  blue,  two  pairs  of 
trousers  and  six  pairs  of  boots.  One  must  count  two 
rifles  to  each  man,  but  one  can't  count  the  overalls. 
Our  emergency  rations  have  been  renewed  twenty-three 
times.  Among  us  seventeen,  we've  been  mentioned 
fourteen  times  in  Army  Orders,  of  which  two  were  to  the 
Brigade,  four  to  the  Division,  and  one  to  the  Army. 
Once  we  stayed  sixteen  days  in  the  trenches  without 
relief.  We've  been  quartered  and  lodged  in  forty-seven 
different  villages  up  to  now.  Since  the  beginning  of  the 
campaign,  twelve  thousand  men  have  passed  through 
the  regime'nt,  which  consists  of  two  thousand." 

A  strange  lisping  noise  interrupts  him.  It  comes 
from  Blaire,  whose  new  ivories  prevent  him  from  talk- 
ing as  they  also  prevent  him  from  eating.  But  he  puts 
them  in  every  evening,  and  retains  them  all  night  with 
fierce  determination,  for  he  was  promised  that  in  the  end 
he  would  grow  accustomed  to  the  object  they  have  put 
into  his  head. 

I  raise  myself  on  my  elbow,  as  on  a  battlefield,  and 
look  once  more  on  the  beings  whom  the  scenes  and  hap- 
penings of  the  times  have  rolled  up  all  together.  I  look 
at  them  all,  plunged  in  the  abyss  of  passive  oblivion, 
some  of  them  seeming  still  to  be  absorbed  in  their  pitiful 
anxieties,  their  childish  instincts,  and  their  slave-like 
ignorance, 


1 86  UNDER  FIRE 

The  intoxication  of  sleep  masters  me.  But  I  recall 
what  they  have  done  and  what  they  will  do ;  and  with 
that  consummate  picture  of  a  sorry  human  night  before 
me,  a  shroud  that  fills  our  cavern  with  darkness,  I  dream 
of  some  great  unknown  light. 


XV 

THE  EGG 

WE  were  badly  off,  hungry  and  thirsty ;  and  in  these 
wretched  quarters  there  was  nothing ! 

Something  had  gone  wrong  with  the  revictualling 
department  and  our  wants  were  becoming  acute.  Where 
the  sorry  place  surrounded  them,  with  its  empty  doors, 
its  bones  of  houses,  and  its  bald-headed  telegraph  posts, 
a  crowd  of  hungry  men  were  grinding  their  teeth  and 
confirming  the  absence  of  everything  : — 

"  The  juice  has  sloped  and  the  wine's  up  the  spout 
and  the  bully's  zero.    Cheese  ?    Nix.    Napoo  jam,  napoo 
butter  on  skewers." 

"We've  nothing,  and  no  error,  nothing;  and  play 
hell  as  you  like,  it  doesn't  help." 

"  Talk  about  rotten  quarters  !  Three  houses  with 
nothing  inside  but  draughts  and  damp." 

"  No  good  having  any  of  the  filthy  here,  you  might 
as  well  have  only  the  skin  of  a  bob  in  your  purse,  as  long 
as  there's  nothing  to  buy." 

"  You  might  be  a  Rothschild,  or  even  a  military  tailor, 
but  what  use'd  your  brass  be  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  there  was  a  bit  of  a  cat  mewing  round 
where  the  7th  are.  I  feel  sure  they've  eaten  it." 

"  Yes,  there  was ;  you  could  see  its  ribs  like  rocks  on 
the  sea-shore." 

"  There  were  some  chaps,"  says  Blaire,  "  who  bustled 
about  when  they  got  here  and  managed  to  find  a  few 
bottles  of  common  wine  at  the  bacca-shop  at  the  corner 
of  the  street." 

"  Ah,  the  swine  !  Lucky  devils  to  be  sliding  that  down 
their  necks," 

I87 


1 88  UNDER  FIRE 

"  It  was  muck,  all  the  same,  it'd  make  your  cup  as 
black  as  your  baccy-pipe." 

"  There  are  some,  they  say,  who've  swallowed  a  fowl." 

"  Damn,"  says  Fouillade. 

"I've  hardly  had  a  bite.  I  had  a  sardine  left,  and  a 
little  tea  in  the  bottom  of  a  bag  that  I  chewed  up  with 
some  sugar." 

"You  can't  even  have  a  bit  of  a  drunk — it's  off 
the  map." 

"  And  that  isn't  enough  either,  even  when  you're  not 
a  big  eater  and  you've  got  a  communication  trench  as 
flat  as  a  pancake." 

"  One  meal  in  two  days — a  yellow  mess,  shining  like 
gold,  no  broth  and  no  meat — everything  left  behind." 

"  And  worst  of  all  we've  nothing  to  light  a  pipe 
with." 

"  True,  and  that's  misery.  I  haven't  a  single  match. 
I  had  several  bits  of  ends,  but  they've  gone.  I've  hunted 
in  vain  through  all  the  pockets  of  my  flea-case — nix. 
As  for  buying  them  its  hopeless,  as  you  say." 

"  I've  got  the  head  of  a  match  that  I'm  keeping." 

It  is  a  real  hardship  indeed,  and  the  sight  is  pitiful 
of  the  poilus  who  cannot  light  pipe  or  cigarette  but  put 
them  away  in  their  pockets  and  stroll  in  resignation. 
By  good  fortune,  Tirloirhas  his  petrol  pipe-lighter  and  it 
still  contains  a  little  spirit.  Those  who  are  aware  of  it 
gather  round  him,  bringing  their  pipes  packed  and  cold. 
There  is  not  even  an y  paper  to  light,  and  the  flame  itself 
must  be  used  until  the  remaining  spirit  in  its  tiny  insect's 
belly  is  burned. 

As  for  me,  I've  been  lucky,  and  I  see  Paradis  wander- 
ing about,  his  kindly  face  to  the  wind,  grumbling  and 
chewing  a  bit  oLwood.  "  Tiens,"  I  say  to  him,  "  take 
this." 

"  A  box  of  matches  !  "  he  exclaims  amazed,  looking 
at  it  as  one  looks  at  a  jewel.  "Egad !  That's  "capital ! 
Matches  !  " 

A  moment  later  we  see  him  lighting  his  pipe,  his  face 
saucily  sideways  and  splendidly  crimsoned  by  the  re- 


THE  EGG  189 

fleeted  flame,  and  everybody  shouts,  "  Paradis'  got  some 
matches  !  " 

Towards  evening  I  meet  Paradis  near  the  mined 
triangle  of  a  house-front  at  the  corner  of  the  two  streets 
of  this  most  miserable  among  villages. 

He  beckons  to  me.  "  Hist  1  "  He  has  a  curious  and 
rather  awkward  air. 

"  I  say,"  he  says  to  me  affectionately,  but  looking 
at  his  feet,  "a  bit  since,  you  chucked  me  a  box  of 
flamers.  Well,  you're  going  to  get  a  bit  of  your  own 
back  for  it.  Here  !  " 

He  puts  something  in  my  hand.  "  Be  careful !  "  he 
whispers,  "it's  fragile  !  " 

Dazzled  by  the  resplendent  purity  of  his  present, 
hardly  even  daring  to  believe  my  eyes,  I  see — an  egg  ! 


XVI 

AN    IDYLL 

"  REALLY  and  truly/'  said  Paradis,  my  neighbour  in 
the  ranks,  "  believe  me  or  not,  I'm  knocked  out — I've 
never  before  been  so  paid  on  a  march  as  I  have  been  with 
this  one,  this  evening." 

His  feet  were  dragging,  and  his  square  shoulders 
bowred  under  the  burden  of  the  knapsack,  whose  height 
and  big  irregular  outline  seemed  almost  fantastic.  Twice 
he  tripped  and  stumbled. 

Paradis  is  tough.  But  he  had  been  running  up  and 
down  the  trench  all  night  as  liaison  man  while  the  others 
were  sleeping,  so  he  had  good  reason  to  be  exhausted 
and  to  growl  "  Quoi?  These  kilometres  must  be  made  of 
india-rubber,  there's  no  way  out  of  it." 

Every  three  steps  he  hoisted  his  knapsack  roughly 
up  with  a  hitch  of  his  hips,  and  panted  under  its  drag- 
ging ;  and  all  the  heap  that  he  made  with  his  bundles 
tossed  and  creaked  like  an  overloaded  wagon. 

"  We're  there,"  said  a  non-com. 

Non-coms,  always  say  that,  on  every  occasion.  But 
— in  spite  of  the  non-com. 's  declaration — we  were  really 
arriving  in  a  twilight  village  which  seemed  to  be  drawn 
in  white  chalk  and  heavy  strokes  of  black  upon  the  blue 
paper  of  the  sky,  where  the  sable  silhouette  of  the 
church — a  pointed  tower  flanked  by  two  turrets  more 
slender  and  more  sharp — was  that  of  a  tall  cypress. 

But  the  soldier,  even  when  he  enters  the  village  where 
he  is  to  be  quartered,  has  not  reached  the  end  of  his 
troubles.  It  rarely  happens  that  either  the  squad  or  the 
section  actually  lodges  in  the  place  assigned  to  them,  and 
this  by  reason  of  misunderstandings  and  cross  purposes 

190 


AN   IDYLL  191 

which  tangle  and  disentangle  themselves  on  the  spot; 
and  it  is  only  after  several  quarter-hours  of  tribulation 
that  each  man  is  led  to  his  actual  shelter  of  the  moment. 

So  after  the  usual  wanderings  we  were  admitted  to  our 
night's  lodging — a  roof  supported  by  four  posts,  and  with 
the  four  quarters  of  the  compass  for  its  walls.  But  it 
was  a  good  roof — an  advantage  which  we  could  appre- 
ciate. It  was  already  sheltering  a  cart  and  a  plough,  and 
we  settled  ourselves  by  them.  Paradis,  who  had  fumed 
and  complained  without  ceasing  during  the  hour  we  had 
spent  in  tramping  to  and  fro,  threw  down  his  knap- 
sack and  then  himself,  and  stayed  there  awhile,  weary 
to  the  utmost,  protesting  that  his  limbs  were  benumbed, 
that  the  soles  of  his  feet  were  painful,  and  indeed  all  the 
rest  of  him. 

But  now  the  house  to  which  our  hanging  roof  was 
subject,  the  house  which  stood  just  in  front  of  us,  was 
lighted  up.  Nothing  attracts  a  soldier  in  the  grey 
monotony  of  evening  so  much  as  a  window  whence  beams 
the  star  of  a  lamp. 

"  Shall  we  have  a  squint  ?  "  proposed  Volpatte. 

"So  be  it,"  said  Paradis.  He  gets  up  gradually, 
and  hobbling  with  weariness,  steers  himself  towards  the 
golden  window  that  has  appeared  in  the  gloom,  and  then 
towards  the  door.  Volpatte  follows  him,  and  I  Volpatte. 

We  enter,  and  ask  the  old  man  who  has  let  us  in  and 
whose  twinkling  head  is  as  threadbare  as  an  old  hat, 
if  he  has  any  wine  to  sell. 

"No,"  replies  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head,  where  a 
little  white  fluff  crops  out  in  places. 

"  No  beer  ?    No  coffee  ?    Anything  at  all " 

"No,  mes  amis,  nothing  of  anything.  We  don't 
belong  here ;  we're  refugees,  you  know." 

"  Then  seeing  there's  nothing,  we'll  be  off."  We 
right-about  face.  At  least  we  have  enjoyed  for  a  moment 
the  warmth  which  pervades  the  house  and  a  sight  of  the 
lamp.  Already  Volpatte  has  gained  the  threshold  and 
his  back  is  disappearing  in  the  darkness. 

But  I  espy  an  old  woman,  sunk  in  the  depths  of  a 


192  UNDER  FIRE 

chair  in  the  other  corner  of  the  kitchen,  who  appears  to 
have  some  busy  occupation. 

I  pinch  Paradis'  arm.  "  There's  the  belle  of  the 
house.  Shall  we  pay  our  addresses  to  her  ?  " 

Paradis  makes  a  gesture  of  lordly  indifference.  He 
has  lost  interest  in  women — all  those  he  has  seen  for 
a  year  and  a  half  were  not  for  him ;  and  moreover, 
even  when  they  would  like  to  be  his,  he  is  equally 
uninterested. 

'  Young  or  old — pooh  !  "  he  says  to  me,  beginning 
to  yawn.  For  want  of  something  to  do  and  to  lengthen 
the  leaving,  he  goes  up  to  the  goodwife.  "  Good- 
evening,  gran'ma,"  he  mumbles,  finishing  his  yawn. 

"  Good-evening,  mes  enfants,"  quavers  the  old  dame. 

So  near,  we  see  her  in  detail.  She  is  shrivelled,  bent 
and  bowed  in  her  old  bones,  and  the  whole  of  her  face  is 
white  as  the  dial  of  a  clock. 

And  what  is  she  doing?  Wedged  between  her  chair 
and  the  edge  of  the  table  she  is  trying  to  clean  some 
boots.  It  is  a  heavy  task  for  her  infantile  hands ;  their 
movements  are  uncertain,  and  her  strokes  with  the  brush 
sometimes  go  astray.  The  boots,  too,  are  very  dirty 
indeed. 

Seeing  that  we  are  watching  her,  she  whispers  to  us 
that  she  must  polish  them  well,  and  this  evening  too, 
for  they  are  her  little  girl's  boots,  who  is  a  dressmaker 
in  the  town  and  goes  off  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

Paradis  has  stooped  to  look  at  the  boots  more  closely, 
and  suddenly  he  puts  his  hand  out  towards  them. 
"  Drop  it,  gran'ma;  I'll  spruce  up  your  lass's  trotter- 
cases  for  you  in  three  sees." 

The  old  woman  lodges  an  objection  by  shaking  her 
head  and  her  shoulders.  But  Paradis  takes  the  boots 
with  authority,  while  the  grandmother,  paralysed  by 
her  weakness,  argues  the  question  and  opposes  us  with  a 
shadowy  protest. 

Paradis  has  taken  a  bootlin  each  hand ;  he  holds  them 
gingerly  and  looks  at  then/for  a  moment,  and  you  would 
even  say  that  he  was  squeezing  them  a  little. 


AN  IDYLL  193 

"  Aren't  they  small !  "  he  says  in  a  voice  which  is 
not  what  we  hear  in  the  usual  way. 

He  has  secured  the  brushes  as  well,  and  sets  himself 
to  wielding  them  with  zealous  carefulness.  I  notice  that 
he  is  smiling,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  work. 

Then,  when  the  mud  has  gone  from  the  boots,  he 
takes  some  polish  on  the  end  of  the  double-pointed  brush 
and  caresses  them  with  it  intently. 

They  are  dainty  boots — quite  those  of  a  stylish  young 
lady ;  rows  of  little  buttons  shine  on  them. 

"  Not  a  single  button  missing,"  he  whispers  to  me,  and 
there  is  pride  in  his  tone. 

He  is  no  longer  sleepy;  he  yawns  no  more.  On  the 
contrary,  his  lips  are  tightly  closed ;  a  gleam  of  youth 
and  spring-time  lights  up  his  face ;  and  he  who  was  on 
the  point  of  going  to  sleep  seems  just  to  have  woke  up. 

And  where  the  polish  has  bestowed  a  beautiful  black 
his  fingers  move  over  the  body  of  the  boot,  which  opens 
widely  in  the  upper  part  and  betrays — ever  such  a  little 
— the  lower  curves  of  the  leg.  His  fingers,  so  skilled  in 
polishing,  are  rather  awkward  all  the  same  as  they  turn 
the  boots  over  and  turn  them  again,  as  he  smiles  at  them 
and  ponders — profoundly  and  afar — while  the  old  woman 
lifts  her  arms  in  the  air  and  calls  me  to  witness  "  What  a 
very  kind  soldier  !  "  he  is. 

It  is  finished.  The  boots  are  cleaned  and  finished  off 
in  style  ;  they  are  like  mirrors.  Nothing  is  left  to  do. 

He  puts  them  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  very  carefully, 
as  if  they  were  saintly  relics ;  then  at  last  his  hands  let 
them  go.  But  his  eyes  do  not  at  once  leave  them.  He 
looks  at  them,  and  then  lowering  his  head,  he  looks  at 
his  own  boots.  I  remember  that  while  he  made  this 
comparison  the  great  lad — a  hero  by  destiny,  a  Bohemian, 
a  monk — smiled  once  more  with  all  his  heart. 

The  old  woman  was  showing  signs  of  activity  in  the 
depths  of  her  chair;  she  had  an  idea.  "  I'll  tell  her  ! 
She  shall  thank  you  herself,  monsieur !  Hey,  Josephine ! " 
she  cried,  turning  towards  a  door. 

But  Paradis  stopped  her  with  an  expansive  gesture 
o 


194  UNDER  FIRE 

which  I  thought  magnificent.  "  No,  it's  not  worth  while , 
gran'ma;  leave  her  where  she  is.  We're  going.  We 
won't  trouble  her,  allez  !  " 

Such  decision  sounded  in  his  voice  that  it  carried 
authority,  and  the  old  woman  obediently  sank  into 
inactivity  and  held  her  peace. 

We  went  away  to  our  bed  under  the  wall-less  roof, 
between  the  arms  of  the  plough  that  was  waiting  for  us. 
And  then  Paradis  began  again  to  yawn ;  but  by  the  light 
of  the  candle  in  our  crib,  a  full  minute  later,  I  saw  that 
the  happy  smile  remained  yet  on  his  face. 


XVII 

IN   THE  SAP 

IN  the  excitement  of  a  distribution  of  letters  from 
which  the  squad  were  returning — some  with  the  delight 
of  a  letter,  some  with  the  semi-delight  of  a  postcard,  and 
others  with  a  new  load  (speedily  reassumed)  of  expecta- 
tion and  hope — a  comrade  comes  with  a  brandished 
newspaper  to  tell  us  an  amazing  story — 

"  Tu  sais,  the  weasel-faced  ancient  at  Gauchin  ?  " 

"  The  old  boy  who  was  treasure-seeking?  " 

"  Well,  he's  found  it  ! " 

"  Gerraway  !  " 

"  It's  just  as  I  tell  you,  you  great  lump  !  What  would 
you  like  me  to  say  to  you  ?  Mass  ?  Don't  know  it.  Any- 
way, the  yard  of  his  place  has  been  bombed,  and  a  chest 
full  of  money  was  turned  up  out  of  the  ground  near  a 
wall.  He  got  his  treasure  full  on  the  back.  And  now  the 
parson's  quietly  cut  in  and  talks  about  claiming  credit 
for  the  miracle." 

We  listen  open-mouthed.  "  A  treasure — well !  well ! 
The  old  bald-head  !  " 

The  sudden  revelation  plunges  us  in  an  abyss  of 
reflection.  "  And  to  think  how  damned  sick  we  were  of 
the  old  cackler  when  he  made  such  a  song  about  his 
treasure  and  dinned  it  into  our  ears  !  " 

"  We  were  right  enough  down  there,  you  remember, 
when  we  were  saying  '  One  never  knows.'  Didn't  guess 
how  near  we  were  to  being  right,  either." 

"  All  the  same,  there  are  some  things  you  can  be  sure 
of,"  says  Farfadet,  who  as  soon  as  Gauchin  was  men- 
tioned had  remained  dreaming  and  distant,  as  though  a 
lovely  face  was  smiling  on  him.  "  But  as  for  this,"  he 


196  UNDER  FIRE 

added,  "  I'd  never  have  believed  it  either  !     Shan't  I 
find  him  stuck  up,  the  old  ruin,  when  I  go  back  there 

after  the  war  !  " 

****** 

"  They  want  a  willing  man  to  help  the  sappers  with 
a  job,"  says  the  big  adjutant. 

"  Not  likely  1  "  growl  the  men,  without  moving. 

"  It'll  be  of  use  in  relieving  the  boys,"  the  adjutant 
goes  on. 

With  that  the  grumbling  ceases,  and  several  heads 
are  raised.  "  Here  !  "  says  Lamuse. 

"  Get  into  your  harness,  big  'un,  and  come  with 
me."  Lamuse  buckles  on  his  knapsack,  rolls  up  his 
blanket,  and  fetters  his  pouches.  Since  his  seizure  of 
unlucky  affection  was  allayed,  he  has  become  more 
melancholy  than  before,  and  although  a  sort  of  fatality 
makes  him  continually  stouter,  he  has  become  engrossed 
and  isolated,  and  rarely  speaks. 

In  the  evening  something  comes  along  the  trench, 
rising  and  falling  according  to  the  lumps  and  holes  in 
the  ground;  a  shape  that  seems  in  the  shadows  to  be 
swimming,  that  outspreads  its  arms  sometimes,  as  though 
appealing  for  help.  It  is  Lamuse. 

He  is  among  us  again,  covered  with  mould  and  mud. 
He  trembles  and  streams  with  sweat,  as  one  who  is 
afraid.  His  lips  stir,  and  he  gasps,  before  they  can  shape 
a  word. 

"  Well,  what  is  there  ?  "  we  ask  him  vainly. 

He  collapses  in  a  corner  among  us  and  prostrates  him- 
self. We  offer  him  wine,  and  he  refuses  it  with  a  sign. 
Then  he  turns  towards  me  and  beckons  me  with  a 
movement  of  his  head. 

When  I  am  by  him  he  whispers  to  me,  very  low,  and 
as  if  in  church,  "  I  have  seen  Eudoxie  again."  He  gasps 
for  breath,  his  chest  wheezes,  and  with  his  eyeballs  fast 
fixed  upon  a  nightmare,  he  says,  "  She  was  putrid." 

"  It  was  the  place  we'd  lost,"  Lamuse  went  on,  "  and 
that  the  Colonials  took  again  with  the  bayonet  ten  days 
ago. 


IN  THE   SAP  197 

"  First  we  made  a  hole  for  the  sap,  and  I  was  in  at  it. 
Since  I  was  scooping  more  than  the  others  I  found  myself 
in  front.  The  others  were  widening  and  making  solid 
behind.  But  behold  I  find  a  jumble  of  beams.  I'd  lit 
on  an  old  trench,  caved  in,  'vidently;  half  caved  in — 
there  was  some  space  and  room.  In  the  middle  of  those 
stumps  of  wood  all  mixed  together  that  I  was  lifting  away 
one  by  one  from  in  front  of  me,  there  was  something  like 
a  big  sandbag  in  height,  upright,  and  something  on  the 
top  of  it  hanging  down. 

"  And  behold  a  plank  gives  way,  and  the  queer  sack 
falls  on  me,  with  its  weight  on  top.  I  was  pegged  down, 
and  the  smell  of  a  corpse  filled  my  throat — on  the  top 
of  the  bundle  there  was  a  head,  and  it  was  the  hair  that 
I'd  seen  hanging  down. 

"  You  understand,  one  couldn't  see  very  well;  but 
I  recognised  the  hair  'cause  there  isn't  any  other  like 
it  in  the  world,  and  then  the  rest  of  the  face,  all  stove 
in  and  mouldy,  the  neck  pulped,  and  all  the  lot  dead 
for  a  month  perhaps.  It  was  Eudoxie,  I  tell  you. 

"  Yes,  it  was  the  woman  I  could  never  go  near  before, 
you  know — that  I  only  saw  a  long  way  off  and  couldn't 
ever  touch,  same  as  diamonds.  She  used  to  run  about 
everywhere,  you  know.  She  used  even  to  wander  in  the 
lines.  One  day  she  must  have  stopped  a  bullet,  and 
stayed  there,  dead  and  lost,  until  the  chance  of  this 
sap. 

"  You  clinch  the  position  ?  I  was  forced  to  hold  her 
up  with  one  arm  as  well  as  I  could,  and  work  with  the 
other.  She  was  trying  to  fall  on  me  with  all  her  weight . 
Old  man,  she  wanted  to  kiss  me,  and  I  didn't  want — 
it  was  terrible.  She  seemed  to  be  saying  to  me,  '  You 
wanted  to  kiss  me,  well  then,  come,  come  now  I '  She 
had  on  her — she  had  there,  fastened  on,  the  remains 
of  a  bunch  of  flowers,  and  that  was  rotten,  too,  and  the 
posy  stank  in  my  nose  like  the  corpse  of  some  little  beast. 

"  I  had  to  take  her  in  my  arms,  in  both  of  them, 
and  turn  gently  round  so  that  I  could  put  her  down  on 
the  other  side.  The  place  was  so  narrow  and  pinched 


198  UNDER  FIRE 

that  as  we  turned,  for  a  moment,  I  hugged  her  to  my 
breast  and  couldn't  help  it,  with  all  my  strength,  old 
chap,  as  I  should  have  hugged  her  once  on  a  time  if 
she'd  have  let  me. 

"  I've  been  half  an  hour  cleaning  myself  from  the 
touch  of  her  and  the  smell  that  she  breathed  on  me  in 
spite  of  me  and  in  spite  of  herself.  Ah,  lucky  for  me 
that  I'm  as  done  up  as  a  wretched  cart-horse  !  " 

He  turns  over  on  his  belly,  clenches  his  fists,  and 
slumbers,  with  his  face  buried  in  the  ground  and  his 
dubious  dream  of  passion  and  corruption. 


XVIII 

A  BOX  OF  MATCHES 

IT  is  five  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Three  men  are  seen 
moving  in  the  bottom  of  the  gloomy  trench.  Around 
their  extinguished  fire  in  the  dirty  excavation  they  are 
frightful  to  see,  black  and  sinister.  Rain  and  negli- 
gence have  put  their  fire  out,  and  the  four  cooks  are 
looking  at  the  corpses  of  brands  that  are  shrouded  in 
ashes  and  the  stumps  of  wood  whence  the  flame  has 
flown. 

Volpatte  staggers  up  to  the  group  and  throws  down 
the  black  mass  that  he  had  on  his  shoulder.  "  I've 
pulled  it  out  of  a  dug-out  where  it  won't  show  much." 

"  We  have  wood,"  says  Blaire,  "  but  we've  got  to 
light  it.  Otherwise,  how  are  we  going  to  cook  this 
cab-horse  ?  " 

"  It's  a  fine  piece,"  wails  a  dark-faced  man,  "  thin 
flank.  In  my  belief,  that's  the  best  bit  of  the  beast,  the 
flank." 

"  Fire  ?  "  Volpatte  objects ;  "  there  are  no  more 
matches,  no  more  anything." 

"  We  must  have  fire,"  growls  Poupardin,  whose  in- 
distinct bulk  has  the  proportions  of  a  bear  as  he  rolls 
and  sways  in  the  dark  depths  of  our  cage. 

"  No  two  ways  about  it,  we've  got  to  have  it,"  Pepin 
agrees.  He  is  coming  out  of  a  dug-out  like  a  sweep  out 
of  a  chimney.  His  grey  mass  emerges  and  appears, 
like  night  upon  evening. 

"  Don't  worry,  I  shall  get  some,"  declares  Blaire  in  a 
concentrated  tone  of  angry  decision.  He  has  not  been 
cook  long,  and  is  keen  to  show  himself  quite  equal  to 
adverse  conditions  in  the  exercise  of  his  functions. 

199 


200  UNDER  FIRE 

He  spoke  as  Martin  Cesar  used  to  speak  when  he  was 
alive.  His  aim  is  to  resemble  the  great  legendary 
figure  of  the  cook  who  always  found  ways  for  a  fire, 
just  as  others,  among  the  non-coms.,  would  fain  imitate 
Napoleon. 

"  I  shall  go  if  it's  necessary  and  fetch  every  bit  of  wood 
there  is  at  Battalion  H.Q.  I  shall  go  and  requisition 
the  colonel's  matches — I  shall  go " 

"  Let's  go  and  forage."  Poupardin  leads  the  way. 
His  face  is  like  the  bottom  of  a  saucepan  that  the  fire  has 
gradually  befouled.  As  it  is  cruelly  cold,  he  is  wrapped 
up  all  over.  He  wears  a  cape  which  is  half  goatskin  and 
half  sheepskin,  half  brown  and  half  whitish,  and  this 
twofold  skin  of  tints  geometrically  cut  makes  him  like 
some  strange  occult  animal. 

Pepin  has  a  cotton  cap  so  soiled  and  so  shiny  with 
grease  that  it  might  be  made  of  black  silk.  Volpatte, 
inside  his  Balaklava  and  his  fleeces,  resembles  a  walking 
tree-trunk.  A  square  opening  betrays  a  yellow  face  at 
the  top  of  the  thick  and  heavy  bark  of  the  mass  he 
makes,  which  is  bifurcated  by  a  couple  of  legs. 

"  Let's  look  up  the  loth.  They've  always  got  the 
needful.  They're  on  the  Pyl6nes  road,  beyond  the 
Boyau-Neuf." 

The  four  alarming  objects  get  under  way,  cloud- 
shape,  in  the  trench  that  unwinds  itself  sinuously  before 
them  like  a  blind  alley,  unsafe,  unlighted,  and  unpaved. 
It  is  uninhabited,  too,  in  this  part,  being  a  gangway 
between  the  second  lines  and  the  first  lines. 

In  the  dusty  twilight  two  Moroccans  meet  the  fire- 
questing  cooks.  One  has  the  skin  of  a  black  boot  and 
the  other  of  a  yellow  shoe.  Hope  gleams  in  the  depths 
of  the  cooks'  hearts. 

"Matches,  boys?" 

"  Napoo,"  replies  the  black  one,  and  his  smile  reveals 
his  long  crockery-like  teeth  in  his  cigar-coloured  mouth 
of  moroccan  leather. 

In  his  turn  the  yellow  one  advances  and  asks, 
"  Tobacco  ?  A  bit  of  tobacco  ?  "  And  he  holds  out  his 


A   BOX  OF  MATCHES  201 

greenish  sleeve  and  his  great  hard  paw,  in  which  the 
cracks  are  full  of  brown  dirt,  and  the  nails  purplish. 

P6pin  growls,  rummages  in  his  clothes,  and  pulls  out  a 
pinch  of  tobacco,  mixed  with  dust,  which  he  hands  to 
the  sharpshooter. 

A  little  farther  they  meet  a  sentry  who  is  half  asleep 
—  in  the  middle  of  the  evening — on  a  heap  of  loose  earth. 
The  drowsy  soldier  says,  "  It's  to  the  right,  and  then 
again  to  the  right,  and  then  straight  forward.  Don't 
go  wrong  about  it." 

They  march — for  a  long  time.  "  We  must  have  come 
a  long  way,"  says  Volpatte,  after  half  an  hour  of  fruitless 
paces  and  encloistered  loneliness. 

"  I  say,  we're  going  downhill  a  hell  of  a  lot,  don't 
you  think?  "  asks  Blaire. 

"  Don't  worry,  old  duffer,"  scoffs  Pepin,  "  but  if 
you've  got  cold  feet  you  can  leave  us  to  it." 

Still  we  tramp  on  in  the  falling  night.  The  ever- 
empty  trench — a  desert  of  terrible  length — has  taken  a 
shabby  and  singular  appearance.  The  parapets  are  in 
ruins;  earthslides  have  made  the  ground  undulate  in 
hillocks. 

An  indefinite  uneasiness  lays  hold  of  the  four  huge  fire- 
hunters,  and  increases  as  night  overwhelms  them  in 
this  monstrous  road. 

Pepin,  who  is  leading  just  now,  stands  fast  and  holds 
up  his  hand  as  a  signal  to  halt.  "  Footsteps,"  they  say 
in  a  sobered  tone. 

Then,  and  in  the  heart  of  them,  they  are  afraid.  It 
was  a  mistake  for  them  all  to  leave  their  shelter  for  so 
long.  They  are  to  blame.  And  one  never  knows. 

"  Get  in  there,  quick,  quick  !  "  says  Pepin,  pointing  to 
a  right-angled  cranny  on  the  ground  level. 

By  the  test  of  a  hand,  the  rectangular  shadow  is  proved 
to  be  the  entry  to  a  funk-hole.  They  crawl  in  singly; 
and  the  last  one,  impatient,  pushes  the  others;  they 
become  an  involuntary  carpet  in  the  dense  darkness 
of  the  hole. 

A  sound  of  steps  and  of  voices  becomes  distinct  and 


202  UNDER  FIRE 

draws  nearer.  From  the  mass  of  the  four  men  who 
tightly  bung  up  the  burrow,  tentative  hands  are  put 
out  at  a  venture.  All  at  once  Pe"pin  murmurs  in  a 
stifled  voice,  "  What's  this  ?  " 

"  What  ?  "  ask  the  others,  pressed  and  wedged  against 
him. 

"  Clips  !  "  says  Pepin  under  his  breath,  "  Boche 
cartridge-clips  on  the  shelf  !  We're  in  the  Boche  trench !  " 

"  Let's  hop  it."  Three  men  make  a  jump  to  get 
out. 

"  Look  out,  bon  Dieu  !    Don't  stir  ! — footsteps " 

They  hear  some  one  walking,  with  the  quick  step  of 
a  solitary  man.  They  keep  still  and  hold  their  breath. 
With  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  level,  they  see  the 
darkness  moving  on  the  right,  and  then  a  shadow 
with  legs  detaches  itself,  approaches,  and  passes.  The 
shadow  assumes  an  outline.  It  is  topped  by  a  helmet 
covered  with  a  cloth  and  rising  to  a  point.  There  is  no 
other  sound  than  that  of  his  passing  feet. 

Hardly  has  the  German  gone  by  when  the  four  cooks, 
with  no  concerted  plan  and  with  a  single  movement, 
burst  forth,  jostling  each  other,  run  like  madmen,  and 
hurl  themselves  on  him. 

"  Kamerad,  messieurs  I  "  he  says. 

But  the  blade  of  a  knife  gleams  and  disappears.  Thfe 
man  collapses  as  if  he  would  plunge  into  the  ground. 
Pepin  seizes  the  helmet  as  the  Boche  is  falling  and  keeps 
it  in  his  hand. 

"  Let's  leg  it,"  growls  the  voice  of  Poupardin. 

"  Got  to  search  him  first !  " 

They  lift  him  and  turn  him  over,  and  set  the  soft, 
damp  and  warm  body  up  again.  Suddenly  he  coughs. 

"  He  isn't  dead  !  " — "  Yes,  he  is  dead;  that's  the  air." 

They  shake  him  by  the  pockets ;  with  hasty  breathing 
the  four  black  men  stoop  over  their  task.  "  The  helmet's 
mine,"  says  Pepin.  "  It  was  me  that  knifed  him,  I  want 
the  helmet." 

They  tear  from  the  body  its  pocket-book  of  still  warm 
papers,  its  field-glass,  purse,  and  leggings. 


A  BOX  OF  MATCHES  203 

"  Matches  !  "  shouts  Blaire,  shaking  a  box,  "he's 
got  some  !  " 

"Ah,  the  fool  that  you  are  !  "  hisses  Volpatte. 

"  Now  let's  be  off  like  hell."  They  pile  the  body  in  a 
corner  and  break  into  a  run,  prey  to  a  sort  of  panic, 
and  regardless  of  the  row  their  disordered  flight  makes. 

"It's  this  way  ! — This  way  ! — Hurry,  lads — for  all 
you're  worth  !  " 

Without  speaking  they  dash  across  the  maze  of  the 
strangely  empty  trench  that  seems  to  have  no  end. 

"  My  wind's  gone,"  says  Blaire,  "  I'm "  He 

staggers  and  stops. 

"  Come  on,  buck  up,  old  chap,"  gasps  Pepin, 
hoarse  and  breathless.  He  takes  him  by  the  sleeve  and 
drags  him  forward  like  a  stubborn  shaft-horse. 

"We're  right  !  "  says  Poupardin  suddenly.  "  Yes,  I 
remember  that  tree.  It's  the  Pyl6nes  road  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  wails  Blaire,  whose  breathing  is  shaking  him 
like  an  engine.  He  throws  himself  forward  with  a  last 
impulse — and  sits  down  on  the  ground. 

"  Halt !  "  cries  a  sentry — "  Good  Lord  !  "  he  stammers 
as  he  sees  the  four  poilus.  "  Where  the — where  are  you 
coming  from,  that  way?  " 

They  laugh,  jump  about  like  puppets,  full-blooded  and 
streaming  with  perspiration,  blacker  than  ever  in  the 
night.  The  German  officer's  helmet  is  gleaming  in  the 
hands  of  Pe"pin.  "  Oh,  Christ  !  "  murmurs  the  sentry, 
with  gaping  mouth,  "  but  what's  been  up?  " 

An  exuberant  reaction  excites  and  bewitches  them. 
All  talk  at  once.  In  haste  and  confusion  they  act  again 
the  drama  which  hardly  yet  they  realise  is  over.  They 
had  gone  wrong  when  they  left  the  sleepy  sentry  and  had 
taken  the  International  Trench,  of  which  a  part  is  ours 
and  another  part  German.  Between  the  French  and 
German  sections  there  is  no  barricade  or  division.  There 
is  merely  a  sort  of  neutral  zone,  at  the  two  ends  of  which 
sentries  watch  ceaselessly.  No  doubt  the  German  watcher 
was  not  at  his  post,  or  likely  he  hid  himself  when  he  saw 
the  four  shadows,  or  perhaps  he  doubled  back  and  had 


204  UNDER  FIRE 

not  time  to  bring  up  reinforcements.  Or  perhaps,  too, 
the  German  officer  had  strayed  too  far  ahead  in  the 
neutral  zone.  In  short,  one  understands  what  happened 
without  understanding  it. 

"  The  funny  part  of  it,"  says  Pepin,  "  is  that  we  knew 
all  about  that,  and  never  thought  to  be  careful  about  it 
when  we  set  off." 

"  We  were  looking  for  matches,"  says  Volpatte. 

"  And  we've  got  some  !  "  cries  Pepin.  "  You've  not 
lost  the  flamers,  old  broomstick?  " 

"  No  damned  fear  !  "  says  Blaire;  "  Boche  matches 
are  better  stuff  than  ours.  Besides,  they're  all  we've 
got  to  light  our  fire  !  Lose  my  box  ?  Let  any  one  try  to 
pinch  it  off  me  !" 

"  We're  behind  time — the  soup-water'll  be  freezing. 
Hurry  up,  so  far.  Afterwards  there'll  be  a  good  yarn  to 
tell  in  the  sewer  where  the  boys  are,  about  what  we  did 
to  the  Boches." 


XIX 

BOMBARDMENT 

WE  are  in  the  flat  country,  a  vast  mistiness,  but 
above  it  is  dark  blue.  The  end  of  the  night  is  marked 
by  a  little  falling  snow  which  powders  our  shoulders 
and  the  folds  in  our  sleeves.  ^ We  are  marching  in 
fours,  hooded.  We  seem  in  the  turbid  twilight  to  be 
the  wandering  survivors  of  one  Northern  district  who 
are  trekking  to  another. 

We  have  followed  a  road  and  have  crossed  the 
ruins  of  Ablain-Saint-Nazaire.  We  have  had  confused 
glimpses  of  its  whitish  heaps  of  houses  and  the  dim 
spider-webs  of  its  suspended  roofs.  The  village  is  so 
long  that  although  full  night  buried  us  in  it  we  saw 
its  last  buildings  beginning  to  pale  in  the  frost  of  dawn. 
Through  the  grating  of  a  cellar  on  the  edge  of  this 
petrified  ocean's  waves,  we  made  out  the  fire  kept 
going  by  the  custodians  of  the  dead  town.  We  have 
paddled  in  swampy  fields,  lost  ourselves  in  silent  places 
where  the  mud  seized  us  by  the  feet,  we  have  dubiously 
regained  our  balance  and  our  bearings  again  on  another 
road,  the  one  which  leads  from  Carency  to  Souchez. 
The  tall  bordering  poplars  are  shivered  and  their  trunks 
mangled ;  in  one  place  the  road  is  an  enormous  colon- 
nade of  trees  destroyed.  Then,  marching  with  us  on 
both  sides,  we  see  through  the  shadows  ghostly  dwarfs 
of  trees,  wide-cloven  like  spreading  palms;  botched 
and  jumbled  into  round  blocks  or  long  strips ;  doubled 
upon  themselves,  as  if  they  knelt.  From  time  to  time 
our  march  is  disordered  and  bustled  by  the  yielding 
of  a  swamp.  The  road  becomes  a  marsh  which  we 
cross  on  our  heels,  while  our  feet  make  the  sound  of 

205 


206  UNDER  FIRE 

sculling.  Planks  have  been  laid  in  it  here  and  there.-^ 
Where  they  have  so  far  sunk  in  the  mud  as  to  proffer 
their  edges  to  us  we  slip  on  them.  Sometimes  there  is 
enough  water  to  float  them,  and  then  under  the  weight 
of  a  man  they  splash  and  go  under,  and  the  man  stumbles 
or  falls,  with  frenzied  imprecations. 

It  must  be  five  o'clock.  The  stark  and  affrighting 
scene  unfolds  itself  to  our  eyes,  but  it  is  still  encircled 
by  a  great  fantastic  ring  of  mist  and  of  darkness.  We 
go  on  and  on  without  pause,  and  come  to  a  place  where 
we  can  make  out  a  dark  hillock,  at  the  foot  of  which 
there  seems  to  be  some  lively  movement  of  human  beings. 

"  Advance  by  twos,"  says  the  leader  of  the  detach- 
ment. "  Let  each  team  of  two  take  alternately  a  plank 
and  a  hurdle."  We  load  ourselves  up.  One  of  the 
two  in  each  couple  assumes  the  rifle  of  his  partner  as 
well  as  his  own.  The  other  with  difficulty  shifts  and 
pulls  out  from  the  pile  a  long  plank,  muddy  and  slippery, 
which  weighs  full  eighty  pounds,  or  a  hurdle  of  leafy 
branches  as  big  as  a  door,  which  he  can  only  just  keep 
on  his  back  as  he  bends  forward  with  his  hands  aloft 
and  grips  its  edges. 

We  resume  our  march,  very  slowly  and  very  ponder- 
ously, scattered  over  the  now  greying  road,  with  com- 
plaints and  heavy  curses  which  the  effort  strangles  in 
our  throafs.  After  about  a  hundred  yards,  the  two 
men  of  each  team  exchange  loads,  so  that  after  two 
hundred  yards,  in  spite  of  the  bitter  blenching  breeze 
of  early  morning,  all  but  the  non-coms,  are  running 
with  sweat. 

Suddenly  a  vivid  star  expands  down  yonder  in  the 
uncertain  direction  that  we  are  taking — a  rocket. 
Widely  it  lights  a  part  of  the  sky  with  its  milky  nimbus, 
blots  out  the  stars,  and  then  falls  gracefully,  fairy-like. 

There  is  a  swift  light  opposite  us  over  there ;  a  flash 
and  a  detonation.  It  is  a  shell !  By  the  flat  reflec- 
tion that  the  explosion  instantaneously  spreads  over 
the  lower  sky  we  see  a  ridge  clearly  outlined  in  front 
of  us  from  east  to  west,  perhaps  half  a  mile  away. 


BOMBARDMENT  207 

That  ridge  is  ours — so  much  of  it  as  we  can  see  from 
here  and  up  to  the  top  of  it,  where  our  troops  are.  On 
the  other  slope,  a  hundred  yards  from  our  first  line,  is 
the  first  German  line.  The  shell  fell  on  the  summit, 
in  our  lines;  it  is  the  others  who  are  firing.  Another 
shell;  another  and  yet  another  plant  trees  of  faintly 
violet  light  on  the  top  of  the  rise,  and  each  of  them 
dully  illumines  the  whole  of  the  horizon. 

Soon  there  is  a  sparkling  of  brilliant  stars  and  a 
sudden  jungle  of  fiery  plumes  on  the  hill ;  and  a  fairy 
mirage  of  blue  and  white  hangs  lightly  before  our  eyes 
in  the  full  gulf  of  night. 

Those  among  us  who  must  devote  the  whole  but- 
tressed power  of  their  arms  and  legs  to  prevent  their 
greasy  loads  from  sliding  off  their  backs  and  to  prevent 
themselves  from  sliding  to  the  ground,  these  neither 
see  nor  hear  anything.  The  others,  sniffing  and  shiver- 
ing with  cold,  wiping  their  noses  with  limp  and  sodden 
handkerchiefs,  watch  and  remark,  cursing  the  obstacles 
in  the  way  with  fragments  of  profanity.  "  It's  like 
watching  fireworks,"  they  say. 

And  to  complete  the  illusion  of  a  great  operatic 
scene,  fairy-like  but  sinister,  before  which  our  bent 
and  black  party  crawls  and  splashes,  behold  a  red  star, 
and  then  a  green ;  then  a  sheaf  of  red  fire,  very  much 
tardier.  In  our  ranks,  as  the  available  half  of  our 
pairs  of  eyes  watch  the  display,  we  cannot  help  mur- 
muring in  idle  tones  of  popular  admiration,  "  Ah,  a 
red  one  !  " — "  Look,  a  green  one  !  "  It  is  the  Germans 
who  are  sending  up  signals,  and  our  men  as  well  who 
are  asking  for  artillery  support. 

Our  road  turns  and  climbs  again  as  the  day  at  last 
decides  to  appear.  Everything  looks  dirty.  A  layer 
of  stickiness,  pearl-grey  and  white,  covers  the  road, 
and  around  it  the  real  world  makes  a  mournful  appear- 
ance. Behind  us  we  leave  ruined  Souchez,  whose 
houses  are  only  flat  heaps  of  rubbish  and  her  trees  but 
humps  of  bramble-like  slivers.  We  plunge  into  a  hole 
on  our  left,  the  entrance  to  the  communication  trench. 


208  UNDER  FIRE 

We  let  our  loads  fall  in  a  circular  enclosure  prepared 
for  them,  and  both  hot  and  frozen  we  settle  in  the  trench 
and  wait,  our  hands  abraded,  wet,  and  stiff  with  crarnp. 

Buried  in  our  holes  up  to  the  chin,  our  chests  heaving 
against  the  solid  bulk  of  the  ground  that  protects  us, 
we  watch  the  dazzling  and  deepening  drama  develop. 
The  bombardment  is  redoubled.  The  trees  of  light  on 
the  ridge  have  melted  into  hazy  parachutes  in  the 
pallor  of  dawn,  sickly  heads  of  Medusae  with  points  of 
fire;  then,  more  sharply  defined  as  the  day  expands, 
they  become  bunches  of  smoke-feathers,  ostrich  feathers 
white  and  grey,  which  come  suddenly  to  life  on  the 
jumbled  and  melancholy  soil  of  Hill  119,  five  or  six 
hundred  yards  in  front  of  us,  and  then  slowly  fade 
away.  They  are  truly  the  pillar  of  fire  and  the  pillar 
of  cloud,  circling  as  one  and  thundering  together.  On 
the  flank  of  the  hill  we  see  a  party  of  men  running  to 
earth.  One  by  one  they  disappear,  swallowed  up  in 
the  adjoining  anthills. 

Now,  one  can  better  make  out  the  form  of  our 
"  guests."  At  each  shot  a  tuft  of  sulphurous  white 
underlined  in  black  forms  sixty  yards  up  in  the  air, 
unfolds  and  mottles  itself,  and  we  catch  in  the  ex- 
plosion the  whistling  of  the  charge  of  bullets  that  the 
yellow  cloud  hurls  angrily  to  the  ground.  It  bursts  in 
sixfold  squalls,  one  after  another — bang,  bang,  bang, 
bang,  bang,  bang.  It  is  the  77  mm.  gun. 

We  disdain  the  77  mm.  shrapnel,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  Blesbois  was  killed  by  one  of  them  three  days 
ago.  They  nearly  always  burst  too  high.  Barque  ex- 
plains it  to  us,  although  we  know  it  well :  "  One's 
chamber-pot  protects  one's  nut  well  enough  against 
the  bullets.  So  they  can  destroy  your  shoulder  and 
damn  well  knock  you  down,  but  they  don't  spread  you 
about.  Naturally,  you've  got  to  be  fly,  all  the  same. 
Got  to  be  careful  you  don't  lift  your  neb  in  the  air  as 
long  as  they're  buzzing  about,  nor  put  your  hand  out 
to  see  if  it's  raining.  Now,  our  75  mm. — 

"  There  aren't  only  the  77's,"  Mesnil  Andre  broke  in, 


BOMBARDMENT  209 

"  there's  all  damned  sorts.     Spell  those  out  for  me " 

Those  are  shrill  and  cutting  whistles,  trembling  or 
rattling;  and  clouds  of  all  shapes  gather  on  the  slopes 
yonder  whose  vastness  shows  through  them,  slopes 
where  our  men  are  in  the  depths  of  the  dug-outs. 
Gigantic  plumes  of  faint  fire  mingle  with  huge  tassels 
of  steam,  tufts  that  throw  out  straight  filaments,  smoky 
feathers  that  expand  as  they  fall — quite  white  or 
greenish-grey,  black  or  copper  with  gleams  of  gold, 
or  as  if  blotched  with  ink. 

The  two  last  explosions  are  quite  near.  Above  the 
battered  ground  they  take  shape  like  vast  balls  of 
black  and  tawny  dust ;  and  as  they  deploy  and  leisurely 
depart  at  the  wind's  will,  having  finished  their  task, 
they  have  the  outline  of  fabled  dragons. 

Our  line  of  faces  on  the  level  of  the  ground  turns 
that  way,  and  we  follow  them  with  our  eyes  from  the 
bottom  of  the  trench  in  the  middle  of  this  country 
peopled  by  blazing  and  ferocious  apparitions,  these 
fields  that  the  sky  has  crushed. 

"Those,  they're  the  150  mm.  howitzers." — "They're 
the  2io's,  call-head." — "  There  go  the  regular  guns, 
too ;  the  hogs  !  Look  at  that  one  !  "  It  was  a  shell 
that  burst  on  the  ground  and  threw  up  earth  and  debris 
in  a  fan-shaped  cloud  of  darkness.  Across  the  cloven 
land  it  looked  like  the  frightful  spitting  of  some  volcano, 
piled  up  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

A  diabolical  uproar  surrounds  us.  We  are  conscious 
of  a  sustained  crescendo,  an  incessant  multiplication 
of  the  universal  frenzy.  A  hurricane  of  hoarse  and 
hollow  banging,  of  raging  clamour,  of  piercing  and 
beast -like  screams,  fastens  furiously  with  tatters  of 
smoke  upon  the  earth  where  we  are  buried  up  to  our 
necks,  and  the  wind  of  the  shells  seems  to  set  it  heaving 
and  pitching. 

"  Look  at  that,"  bawls  Barque,  "  and  me  that  said 
they  were  short  of  munitions  !  " 

"  Oh,  la,  la  !    We  know  all  about  that  !     That  and 
the  other  fudge  the  newspapers  squirt  all  over  us  !  " 
p 


2io  UNDER  FIRE 

A  dull  crackle  makes  itself  audible  amidst  the  babel 
of  noise.  That  slow  rattle  is  of  all  the  sounds  of  war 
the  one  that  most  quickens  the  heart. 

"  The  coffee-mill ! l  One  of  ours,  listen.  The  shots 
come  regularly,  while  the  Bodies'  haven't  got  the  same 
length  of  time  between  the  shots ;  they  go  crack — crack- 
crack-crack — crack-crack — crack ' ' 

"  Don't  cod  yourself,  crack-pate ;  it  isn't  an  un- 
sewing-machine  at  all;  it's  a  motor-cycle  on  the  road 
to  31  dug-out,  away  yonder." 

"  Well,  7  think  it's  a  chap  up  aloft  there,  having  a 
look  round  from  his  broomstick,"  chuckles  Pepin,  as 
he  raises  his  nose  and  sweeps  the  firmament  in  search 
of  an  aeroplane. 

A  discussion  arises,  but  one  cannot  say  what  the 
noise  is,  and  that's  all.  One  tries  in  vain  to  become 
familiar  with  all  those  diverse  disturbances.  It  even 
happened  the  other  day  in  the  wood  that  a  whole  section 
mistook  for  the  hoarse  howl  of  a  shell  the  first  notes  of 
a  neighbouring  mule  as  he  began  his  whinnying  bray. 

"  I  say,  there's  a  good  show  of  sausages  in  the  air 
this  morning,"  says  Lamuse.  Lifting  our  eyes,  we 
count  them. 

11  There  are  eight  sausages  on  our  side  and  eight  on 
the  Boches',"  says  Cocon,  who  has  already  counted  them. 

There  are,  in  fact,  at  regular  intervals  along  the 
horizon,  opposite  the  distance-dwindled  group  of  captive 
enemy  balloons,  the  eight  long  hovering  eyes  of  the 
army,  buoyant  and  sensitive,  and  joined  to  the  various 
headquarters  by  living  threads. 

"  They  see  us  as  we  see  them.  How  the  devil  can 
one  escape  from  that  row  of  God  Almighties  up  there  ?  " 

There's  our  reply  ! 

Suddenly,  behind  our  backs,  there  bursts  the  sharp 
and  deafening  stridor  of  the  75 's.  Their  increasing 
crackling  thunder  arouses  and  elates  us.  We  shout 
with  our  guns,  and  look  at  each  other  without  hearing 
our  shouts — except  for  the  curiously  piercing  voice 
1  Military  slang  for  machine-gun. — Tr. 


BOMBARDMENT  211 

that  comes  from  Barque's  great  mouth — amid  the 
rolling  of  that  fantastic  drum  whose  every  note  is  the 
report  of  a  cannon. 

Then  we  turn  our  eyes  ahead  and  outstretch  our 
necks,  and  on  the  top  of  the  hill  we  see  the  still  higher 
silhouette  of  a  row  of  black  infernal  trees  whose  terrible 
roots  are  striking  down  into  the  invisible  slope  where  the 
enemy  cowers. 

While  the  "  75  "  battery  continues  its  barking  a 
hundred  yards  behind  us — the  sharp  anvil-blows  of  a 
huge  hammer,  followed  by  a  dizzy  scream  of  force  and 
fury — a  gigantic  gurgling  dominates  the  devilish  oratorio ; 
that,  also,  is  coming  from  our  side.  "  It's  a  gran'pa, 
that  one  !  " 

The  shell  cleaves  the  air  at  perhaps  a  thousand  yards 
above  us;  the  voice  of  its  gun  covers  all  as  with  a 
pavilion  of  resonance.  The  sound  of  its  travel  is 
sluggish,  and  one  divines  a  projectile  bigger-bo  welled, 
more  enormous  than  the  others.  We  can  hear  it  passing 
and  declining  in  front  with  the  ponderous  and  increasing 
vibration  of  a  train  that  enters  a  station  under  brakes ; 
then,  its  heavy  whine  sounds  fainter.  We  watch  the 
hill  opposite,  and  after  several  seconds  it  is  covered  by  a 
salmon-pink  cloud  that  the  wind  spreads  over  one-half 
of  the  horizon.  "  It's  a  220  mm." 

"  One  can  see  them,"  declares  Volpatte,  "  those  shells, 
when  they  come  out  of  the  gun.  If  you're  in  the  right 
line,  you  can  even  see  them  a  good  long  way  from  the 
gun." 

Another  follows  :  "  There  !  Look,  look  !  Did  you  see 
that  one  ?  You  didn't  look  quick  enough,  you  missed  it. 
Get  a  move  on  !  Look,  another  !  Did  you  see  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  see  it."—"  Ass  !  Got  to  be  a  bedstead 
for  you  to  see  it  !  Look,  quick,  that  one,  there  !  Did 
you  see  it,  unlucky  good-for-nothing?" — "I  saw  it; 
is  that  all?  " 

Some  have  made  out  a  small  black  object,  slender 
and  pointed  as  a  blackbird  with  folded  wings,  pricking 
a  wide  curve  down  from  the  zenith. 


212  UNDER  FIRE 

"  That  weighs  240  lb.,  that  one,  my  old  bug,"  says 
Volpatte  proudly,  "  and  when  that  drops  on  a  funk- 
hole  it  kills  everybody  inside  it.  Those  that  aren't 
picked  off  by  the  explosion  are  struck  dead  by  the  wind 
of  it,  or  they're  gas-poisoned  before  they  can  say  '  ouf  ! '  " 

"  The  270  mm.  shell  can  be  seen  very  well,  too — talk 
about  a  bit  of  iron — when  the  howitzer  sends  it  up — 
allez,  off  you  go  !  " 

"  And  the  155  Rimailho,  too ;  but  you  can't  see  that 
one  because  it  goes  too  straight  and  too  far;  the  more 
you  look  for  it  the  more  it  vanishes  before  your  eyes." 

In  a  stench  of  sulphur  and  black  powder,  of  burned 
stuffs  and  calcined  earth  which  roams  in  sheets  about 
the  country,  all  the  menagerie  is  let  loose  and  gives 
battle.  Bellowings,  roarings,  growlings,  strange  and 
savage;  feline  caterwaulings  that  fiercely  rend  your 
ears  and  search  your  belly,  or  the  long-drawn  piercing 
hoot  like  the  siren  of  a  ship  in  distress.  At  times, 
even,  something  like  shouts  cross  each  other  in  the 
air-currents,  with  curious  variation  of  tone  that  make 
the  sound  human.  The  country  is  bodily  lifted  in  places 
and  falls  back  again.  From  one  end  of  the  horizon  to 
the  other  it  seems  to  us  that  the  earth  itself  is  raging 
with  storm  and  tempest. 

And  the  greatest  guns,  far  away  and  still  farther, 
diffuse  growls  much  subdued  and  smothered,  but  you 
know  the  strength  of  them  by  the  displacement  of  air 
which  comes  and  raps  you  on  the  ear. 

Now,  behold  a  heavy  mass  of  woolly  green  which 
expands  and  hovers  over  the  bombarded  region  and 
draws  out  in  every  direction.  This  touch  of  strangely 
incongruous  colour  in  the  picture  summons  attention, 
and  all  we  encaged  prisoners  turn  our  faces  towards  the 
hideous  outcrop. 

"  Gas,  probably.  Let's  have  our  masks  ready."™ 
"  The  hogs  !  " 

"  They're  unfair  tricks,  those,"  says  Farfadet. 

"  They're  what?  "  asks  Barque  jeeringly. 

"  Why,  yes,  they're  dirty  dodges,  those  gases " 


BOMBARDMENT  213 

"  You  make  me  tired,"  retorts  Barque,  "  with  your 
fair  ways  and  your  unfair  ways.  When  you've  seen 
men  squashed,  cut  in  two,  or  divided  from  top  to  bottom, 
blown  into  showers  by  an  ordinary  shell,  bellies  turned 
inside  out  and  scattered  anyhow,  skulls  forced  bodily 
into  the  chest  as  if  by  a  blow  with  a  club,  and  in  place 
of  the  head  a  bit  of  neck,  oozing  currant  jam  of  brains 
all  over  the  chest  and  back — you've  seen  that  and  yet 
you  can  say  '  There  are  clean  ways  !  ' 

"  Doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  the  shell  is  allowed,  it's 
recognised " 

"  Ah,  la,  la  !  I'll  tell  you  what — you  make  me 
blubber  just  as  much  as  you  make  me  laugh  !  "  And 
he  turns  his  back. 

"  Hey,  look  out,  boys  !  " 

We  strain  our  eyes,  and  one  of  us  has  thrown  himself 
flat  on  the  ground ;  others  look  instinctively  and  frown- 
ing towards  the  shelter  that  we  have  not  time  to  reach, 
and  during  these  two  seconds  each  one  bends  his  head. 
It  is  a  grating  noise  as  of  huge  scissors  which  comes 
near  and  nearer  to  us,  and  ends  at  last  with  a  ringing 
crash  of  unloaded  iron. 

That  one  fell  not  far  from  us — two  hundred  yards 
away,  perhaps.  We  crouch  in  the  bottom  of  the  trench 
and  remain  doubled  up  while  the  place  where  we  are 
is  lashed  by  a  shower  of  little  fragments. 

"  Don't  want  this  in  my  tummy,  even  from  that 
distance,"  says  Paradis,  extracting  from  the  earth  of 
the  trench  wall  a  morsel  that  has  just  lodged  there. 
It  is  like  a  bit  of  coke,  bristling  with  edged  and  pointed 
facets,  and  he  dances  it  in  his  hand  so  as  not  to  burn 
himself. 

There  is  a  hissing  noise.  Paradis  sharply  bows  his 
head  and  we  follow  suit.  "  The  fuse  ! — it  has  gone 
over."  The  shrapnel  fuse  goes  up  and  then  comes 
down  vertically;  but  that  of  the  percussion  shell  de- 
taches itself  from  the  broken  mass  after  the  explosion 
and  usually  abides  buried  at  the  point  of  contact,  but 
at  other  times  it  flies  off  at  random  like  a  big  red-hot 


214  UNDER  FIRE 

pebble.  One  must  beware  of  it.  It  may  hurl  itself 
on  you  a  very  long  time  after  the  detonation  and  by 
incredible  paths,  passing  over  the  embankment  and 
plunging  into  the  cavities. 

"  Nothing  so  piggish  as  a  fuse.  It  happened  to  me 
once " 

"  There's  worse  things,"  broke  in  Bags  of  the  nth, 
"  the  Austrian  shells,  the  iso's  and  the  74*3.  I'm 
afraid  of  them.  They're  nickel-plated,  they  say,  but 
what  I  do  know,  seeing  I've  been  there,  is  they  come  so 
quick  you  can't  do  anything  to  dodge  them.  You  no 
sooner  hear  'em  snoring  than  they  burst  on  you." 

"  The  German  105*3,  neither,  you  haven't  hardly  the 
time  to  flatten  yourself.  I  once  got  the  gunners  to  tell 
me  all  about  them." 

"  I  tell  you,  the  shells  from  the  naval  guns,  you 
haven't  the  time  to  hear  'em.  Got  to  pack  yourself  up 
before  they  come." 

"  And  there's  that  new  shell,  a  dirty  devil,  that  breaks 
wind  after  it's  dodged  into  the  earth  and  out  of  it  again 
two  or  three  times  in  the  space  of  six  yards.  When  I 
know  there's  one  of  them  about,  I  want  to  go  round  the 
corner.  I  remember  one  time " 

"  That's  all  nothing,  my  lads,"  said  the  new  sergeant, 
stopping  on  his  way  past,  "  you  ought  to  see  what  they 
chucked  us  at  Verdun,  where  I've  come  from.  Nothing 
but  whoppers,  38o's  and  42o's  and  244's.  When  you've 
been  shelled  down  there  you  know  all  about  it — the  woods 
are  sliced  down  like  cornfields,  the  dug-outs  marked 
and  burst  in  even  when  they've  three  thicknesses  of 
beams,  all  the  road-crossings  sprinkled,  the  roads  blown 
into  the  air  and  changed  into  long  heaps  of  smashed 
convoys  and  wrecked  guns,  corpses  twisted  together 
as  though  shovelled  up.  You  could  see  thirty  chaps 
laid  out  by  one  shot  at  the  cross-roads;  you  could  see 
fellows  whirling  around  as  they  went  up,  always  about 
fifteen  yards,  and  bits  of  trousers  caught  and  stuck  on 
the  tops  of  the  trees  that  were  left.  You  could  see  one 
of  these  38o's  go  into  a  house  at  Verdun  by  the  roof, 


BOMBARDMENT  215 

bore  through  two  or  three  floors,  and  burst  at  the 
bottom,  and  all  the  damn  lot's  got  to  go  aloft ;  and  in 
the  fields  whole  battalions  would  scatter  and  lie  flat 
under  the  shower  like  poor  little  defenceless  rabbits. 
At  every  step  on  the  ground  in  the  fields  you'd  got 
lumps  as  thick  as  your  arm  and  as  wide  as  that,  and 
it'd  take  four  poilus  to  lift  the  lump  of  iron.  The  fields 
looked  as  if  they  were  full  of  rocks.  And  that  went  on 
without  a  halt  for  months  on  end,  months  on  end  !  " 
the  sergeant  repeated  as  he  passed  on,  no  doubt  to  tell 
again  the  story  of  his  souvenirs  somewhere  else. 

"  Look,  look,  corporal,  those  chaps  over  there — are 
they  soft  in  the  head?  "  On  the  bombarded  position 
we  saw  dots  of  human  beings  emerge  hurriedly  and  run 
towards  the  explosions. 

"They're  gunners,"  said  Bertrand;  "as  soon  as  a 
shell's  burst  they  sprint  and  rummage  for  the  fuse  in 
the  hole,  for  the  position  of  the  fuse  gives  the  direction 
of  its  battery,  you  see,  by  the  way  it's  dug  itself  in ; 
and  as  for  the  distance,  you've  only  got  to  read  it — 
it's  shown  on  the  range-figures  cut  on  the  time-fuse 
which  is  set  just  before  firing." 

"  No  matter — they're  off  their  onions  to  go  out  under 
such  shelling." 

"  Gunners,  my  boy,"  says  a  man  of  another  company 
who  was  strolling  in  the  trench,  "  are  either  quite  good 
or  quite  bad.  Either  they're  trumps  or  they're  trash. 
I  tell  you " 

"  That's  true  of  all  privates,  what  you're  saying." 

"Possibly;  but  I'm  not  talking  to  you  about  all 
privates;  I'm  talking  to  you  about  gunners,  and  I  tell 
you  too  that " 

"  Hey,  my  lads !  Better  find  a  hole  to  dump 
yourselves  in,  before  you  get  one  on  the  snitch  ! " 

The  strolling  stranger  carried  his  story  away,  and 
Cocon,  who  was  in  a  perverse  mood,  declared  :  "  We  can 
be  doing  our  hair  in  the  dug-out,  seeing  it's  rather 
boring  outside." 

"  Look,  they're  sending  torpedoes  over  there  !  "  said 


2i 6  UNDER  FIRE 

Paradis,  pointing.  Torpedoes  go  straight  up,  or  very 
nearly  so,  like  larks,  fluttering  and  rustling;  then  they 
stop,  hesitate,  and  come  straight  down  again,  heralding 
their  fall  in  its  last  seconds  by  a  "  baby-cry  "  that  we 
know  well.  From  here,  the  inhabitants  of  the  ridge 
seem  like  invisible  players,  lined  up  for  a  game  with 
a  ball. 

"  In  the  Argonne,"  says  Lamuse,  "  my  brother  says 
in  a  letter  that  they  get  turtle-doves,  as  he  calls  them. 
They're  big  heavy  things,  fired  off  very  close.  They 
come  in  cooing,  really  they  do,  he  says,  and  when  they 
break  wind  they  don't  half  make  a  shindy,  he  says." 

"  There's  nothing  worse  than  the  mortar-toad,  that 
seems  to  chase  after  you  and  jump  over  the  top  of  you, 
and  it  bursts  in  the  very  trench,  just  scraping  over  the 
bank." 

"  Tiens,  tiens,  did  you  hear  it?  "  A  whistling  was 
approaching  us  when  suddenly  it  ceased.  The  contriv- 
ance has  not  burst.  "  It's  a  shell  that  cried  off," 
Paradis  asserts.  And  we  strain  our  ears  for  the  satis- 
faction of  hearing — or  of  not  hearing — others. 

Lamuse  says  :  "All  the  fields  and  the  roads  and  the 
villages  about  here,  they're  covered  with  dud  shells  of 
all  sizes — ours  as  well,  to  say  truth.  The  ground  must 
be  full  of  'em,  that  you  can't  see.  I  wonder  how  they'll 
go  on,  later,  when  the  time  comes  to  say,  '  That's  enough 
of  it,  let's  start  work  again.'  ' 

And  all  the  time,  in  a  monotony  of  madness,  the 
avalanche  of  fire  and  iron  goes  on ;  shrapnel  with  its 
whistling  explosion  and  its  overcharged  heart  of  furious 
metal,  and  the  great  percussion  shells,  whose  thunder  is 
that  of  the  railway  engine  which  crashes  suddenly  into 
a  wall,  the  thunder  of  loaded  rails  or  steel  beams,  top- 
pling down  a  declivity.  The  air  is  now  glutted  and 
viewless,  it  is  crossed  and  recrossed  by  heavy  blasts, 
and  the  murder  of  the  earth  continues  all  around, 
deeply  and  more  deeply,  to  the  limit  of  completion. 

There  are  even  other  guns  which  now  join  in — they 
are  ours.  Their  report  is  like  that  of  the  75*5,  but 


BOMBARDMENT  217 

louder,  and  it  has  a  prolonged  and  resounding  echo,  like 
thunder  reverberating  among  mountains. 

"  They're  the  long  I2o's.  They're  on  the  edge  of  the 
wood  half  a  mile  away.  Fine  guns,  old  man,  like  grey- 
hounds. They're  slender  and  fine-nosed,  those  guns — 
you  want  to  call  them  '  Madame/  They're  not  like  the 
22o's — they're  all  snout,  like  coal-scuttles,  and  spit 
their  shells  out  from  the  bottom  upwards.  The  I2o's 
get  there  just  the  same,  but  among  the  teams  of  artillery 
they  look  like  kids  in  bassinettes." 

Conversation  languishes;  here  and  there  are  yawns. 
The  dimensions  and  weight  of  this  outbreak  of  the  guns 
fatigues  the  mind.  Our  voices  flounder  in  it  and  are 
drowned. 

"  I've  never  seen  anything  like  this  for  a  bombard- 
ment," shouts  Barque. 

"  We  always  say  that,"  replies  Paradis. 

"  Just  so,"  bawls  Volpatte.  "  There's  been  talk  of 
an  attack  lately ;  I  should  say  this  is  the  beginning  of 
something." 

The  others  say  simply,  "  Ah  !  " 

Volpatte  displays  an  intention  of  snatching  a  wink  of 
sleep.  He  settles  himself  on  the  ground  with  his  back 
against  one  wall  of  the  trench  and  his  feet  buttressed 
against  the  other  wall. 

We  converse  together  on  divers  subjects.  Biquet 
tells  the  story  of  a  rat  he  has  seen  :  "He  was  cheeky 
and  comical,  you  know.  I'd  taken  off  my  trotter-cases, 
and  that  rat,  he 'chewed  all  the  edge  of  the  uppers  into 
embroidery.  Discourse,  I'd  greased  'em." 

Volpatte,  who  is  now  definitely  out  of  action,  moves 
and  says,  "  I  can't  get  to  sleep  for  your  gabbling." 

"  You  can't  make  me  believe,  old  fraud,"  says  Mar- 
thereau,  "  that  you  can  raise  a  single  snore  with  a 
shindy  like  this  all  round  you." 

Volpatte  replies  with  one. 

****** 

Fall  in  !     March  ! 

We  are  changing  our  spot.     Where  are  they  taking 


2i 8  UNDER  FIRE 

us  to  ?  We  have  no  idea.  The  most  we  know  is  that 
we  are  in  reserve,  and  that  they  may  take  us  round  to 
strengthen  certain  points  in  succession,  or  to  clear  the 
communication  trenches,  in  which  the  regulation  of 
passing  troops  is  as  complicated  a  job,  if  blocks  and 
collisions  are  to  be  avoided,  as  it  is  of  the  trains  in  a 
busy  station.  It  is  impossible  to  make  out  the  meaning 
of  the  immense  manoeuvre  in  which  the  rolling  of  our 
regiment  is  only  that  of  a  little  wheel,  nor  what  is  going 
on  in  all  the  huge  area  of  the  sector.  But,  lost  in  the 
network  of  deeps  where  we  go  and  come  without  end, 
weary,  harassed  and  stiff-jointed  by  prolonged  halts, 
stupefied  by  noise  and  delay,  poisoned  by  smoke,  we 
make  out  that  our  artillery  is  becoming  more  and  more 
active ;  the  offensive  seems  to  have  changed  places. 
****** 

Halt  !  A  fire  of  intense  and  incredible  fury  was 
threshing  the  parapets  of  the  trench  where  we  were 
halted  at  the  moment  :  "  Fritz  is  going  it  strong;  he's 
afraid  of  an  attack,  he's  going  dotty.  Ah,  isn't  he 
letting  fly  !  " 

A  heavy  hail  was  pouring  over  us,  hacking  terribly 
at  atmosphere  and  sky,  scraping  and  skimming  all  the 
plain. 

I  looked  through  a  loophole  and  saw  a  swift  and 
strange  vision.  In  front  of  us,  a  dozen  yards  away  at 
most,  there  were  motionless  forms  outstretched  side  by 
side — a  row  of  mown-down  soldiers — and  the  countless 
projectiles  that  hurtled  from  all  sides  were  riddling  this 
rank  of  the  dead  ! 

The  bullets  that  flayed  the  soil  in  straight  streaks  and 
raised  slender  stems  of  cloud  were  perforating  and  rip- 
ping the  bodies  so  rigidly  close  to  the  ground,  break- 
ing the  stiffened  limbs,  plunging  into  the  wan  and 
vacant  faces,  bursting  and  bespattering  the  liquefied 
eyes;  and  even  did  that  file  of  corpses  stir  and  budge 
out  of  line  under  the  avalanche. 

We  could  hear  the  blunt  sound  of  the  dizzy  copper 
points  as  they  pierced  cloth  and  flesh,  the  sound  of  a 


BOMBARDMENT  219 

furious  stroke  with  a  knife,  the  harsh  blow  of  a  stick 
upon  clothing.  Above  us  rushed  jets  of  shrill  whistling, 
with  the  declining  and  far  more  serious  hum  of  ricochets. 
And  we  bent  our  heads  under  the  enormous  flight  of 
noises  and  voices. 

"  Trench  must  be  cleared — Gee  up  !  "  We  leave  this 
most  infamous  corner  of  the  battlefield  where  even  the 
dead  are  torn,  wounded,  and  slain  anew. 

We  turn  towards  the  right  and  towards  the  rear.  The 
communication  trench  rises,  and  at  the  top  of  the  gully 
we  pass  in  front  of  a  telephone  station  and  a  group  of 
artillery  officers  and  gunners.  Here  there  is  a  further 
halt.  We  mark  time,  and  hear  the  artillery  observer 
shout  his  commands,  which  the  telephonist  buried 
beside  him  picks  up  and  repeats  :  "  First  gun,  same  sight ; 
two-tenths  to  left ;  three  a  minute  !  " 

Some  of  us  have  risked  our  heads  over  the  edge  of 
the  bank  and  have  glimpsed  for  the  space  of  the  light- 
ning's flash  all  the  field  of  battle  round  which  our 
company  has  uncertainly  wandered  since  the  morning. 
I  saw  a  limitless  grey  plain,  across  whose  width  the 
wind  seemed  to  be  driving  faint  and  thin  waves  of  dust, 
pierced  in  places  by  a  more  pointed  billow  of  smoke. 

Where  the  sun  and  the  clouds  trail  patches  of  black 
and  of  white,  the  immense  space  sparkles  dully  from 
point  to  point  where  our  batteries  are  firing,  and  I  saw 
it  one  moment  entirely  spangled  with  short-lived  flashes. 
Another  minute,  part  of  the  field  grew  dark  under  a 
steamy  and  whitish  film,  a  sort  of  hurricane  of  snow. 

Afar,  on  the  evil,  endless,  and  half-ruined  fields, 
caverned  like  cemeteries,  we  see  the  slender  skeleton 
of  a  church,  like  a  bit  of  torn  paper;  and  from  one 
margin  of  the  picture  to  the  other,  dim  rows  of  vertical 
marks,  close  together  and  underlined,  like  the  straight 
strokes  of  a  written  page — these  are  the  roads  and  their 
trees.  Delicate  meandering  lines  streak  the  plain 
backward  and  forward  and  rule  it  in  squares,  and  these 
windings  are  stippled  with  men. 

We  can  make  out  some  fragments  of  lines  made  up 


220  UNDER  FIRE 

of  these  human  points  who  have  emerged  from  the 
hollowed  streaks  and  are  moving  on  the  plain  in  the 
horrible  face  of  the  flying  firmament.  It  is  difficult  to 
believe  that  each  of  those  tiny  spots  is  a  living  tiling 
with  fragile  and  quivering  flesh,  infinitely  unarmed  in 
space,  full  of  deep  thoughts,  full  of  far  memories  and 
crowded  pictures.  One  is  fascinated  by  this  scattered 
dust  of  men  as  small  as  the  stars  in  the  sky. 

Poor  unknowns,  poor  fellow-men,  it  is  your  turn  to 
give  battle.  Another  time  it  will  be  ours.  Perhaps 
to-morrow  it  will  be  ours  to  feel  the  heavens  burst  over 
our  heads  or  the  earth  open  under  our  feet,  to  be  assailed 
by  the  prodigious  plague  of  projectiles,  to  be  swept  away 
by  the  blasts  of  a  tornado  a  hundred  thousand  times 
stronger  than  the  tornado. 

They  urge  us  into  the  rearward  shelters.  For  our 
eyes  the  field  of  death  vanishes.  To  our  ears  the 
thunder  is  deadened  on  the  great  anvil  of  the  clouds. 
The  sound  of  universal  destruction  is  still.  The  squad 
surrounds  itself  with  the  familiar  noises  of  life,  and 
sinks  into  the  fondling  littleness  of  the  dug-outs. 


XX 

UNDER   FIRE 

RUDELY  awakened  in  the  dark,  I  open  my  eyes : 
"What?  What's  up?  " 

"  Your  turn  on  guard — it's  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing," says  Corporal  Bertrand  at  the  opening  into  the 
hole  where  I  am  prostrate  on  the  floor.  I  hear  him 
without  seeing  him. 

"  I'm  coming,"  I  growl,  and  shake  myself,  and  yawn 
in  the  little  sepulchral  shelter.  I  stretch  my  arms,  and 
my  hands  touch  the  soft  and  cold  clay.  Then  I  cleave 
the  heavy  odour  that  fills  the  dug-out  and  crawl  out  in 
the  middle  of  the  dense  gloom  between  the  collapsed 
bodies  of  the  sleepers.  After  several  stumbles  and 
entanglements  among  accoutrements,  knapsacks  and 
limbs  stretched  out  in  all  directions,  I  put  my  hand  on 
my  rifle  and  find  myself  upright  in  the  open  air,  half 
awake  and  dubiously  balanced,  assailed  by  the  black 
and  bitter  breeze. 

Shivering,  I  follow  the  corporal ;  he  plunges  in  between 
the  dark  embankments  whose  lower  ends  press  strangely 
and  closely  on  our  march.  He  stops ;  the  place  is  here. 
I  make  out  a  heavy  mass  half-way  up  the  ghostly  wall 
which  comes  loose  and  descends  from  it  with  a  whinnying 
yawn,  and  I  hoist  myself  into  the  niche  which  it  had 
occupied. 

The  moon  is  hidden  by  mist,  but  a  very  weak  and 
uncertain  light  overspreads  the  scene,  and  one's  sight 
gropes  its  way.  Then  a  wide  strip  of  darkness,  hovering 
and  gliding  up  aloft,  puts  it  out.  Even  after  touching 
the  breastwork  and  the  loophole  in  front  of  my  face 
I  can  hardly  make  them  out,  and  my  inquiring  hand 

221 


222  UNDER  FIRE 

discovers,  among  an  ordered  deposit  of  things,  a  mass 
of  grenade  handles. 

"  Keep  your  eye  skinned,  old  chap,"  says  Bertrand 
in  a  low  voice.  "  Don't  forget  that  our  listening-post  is 
in  front  there  on  the  left.  Allans,  so  long."  His  steps 
die  away,  followed  by  those  of  the  sleepy  sentry  whom 
I  am  relieving. 

Rifle-shots  crackle  all  round.  Abruptly  a  bullet 
smacks  the  earth  of  the  wall  against  which  I  am  leaning. 
I  peer  through  the  loophole.  Our  line  runs  along  the 
top  of  the  ravine,  and  the  land  slopes  downward  in  front 
of  me,  plunging  into  an  abyss  of  darkness  where  one 
can  see  nothing.  One's  sight  ends  always  by  picking 
out  the  regular  lines  of  the  stakes  of  our  wire  entangle- 
ments, planted  on  the  shore  of  the  waves  of  night,  and 
here  and  there  the  circular  funnel-like  wounds  of  shells, 
little,  larger,  or  enormous,  and  some  of  the  nearest 
occupied  by  mysterious  lumber.  The  wind  blows  in 
my  face,  and  nothing  else  is  stirring  save  the  vast 
moisture  that  drains  from  it.  It  is  cold  enough  to  set 
one  shivering  in  perpetual  motion.  I  look  upwards, 
this  way  and  that ;  everything  is  borne  down  by  dreadful 
gloom.  I  might  be  derelict  and  alone  in  the  middle  of 
a  world  destroyed  by  a  cataclysm. 

There  is  a  swift  illumination  up  above — a  rocket. 
The  scene  in  which  I  am  stranded  is  picked  out  in 
sketchy  incipience  around  me.  The  crest  of  our  trench 
stands  forth,  jagged  and  dishevelled,  and  I  see,  stuck 
to  the  outer  wall  every  five  paces  like  upright  cater- 
pillars, the  shadows  of  the  watchers.  Their  rifles  are 
revealed  beside  them  by  a  few  spots  of  light.  The 
trench  is  shored  with  sandbags.  It  is  widened  every- 
where, and  in  many  places  ripped  up  by  landslides. 
The  sandbags,  piled  up  and  dislodged,  appear  in  the 
starlike  light  of  the  rocket  like  the  great  dismantled 
stones  of  ancient  ruined  buildings.  I  look  through  the 
loophole,  and  discern  in  the  misty  and  pallid  atmosphere 
expanded  by  the  meteor  the  rows  of  stakes  and  even 
the  thin  lines  of  barbed  wire  which  cross  and  recross 


UNDER  FIRE  223 

between  the  posts.  To  my  seeing  they  are  like  strokes 
of  a  pen  scratched  upon  the  pale  and  perforated  ground. 
Lower  down,  the  ravine  is  filled  with  the  motionless 
silence  of  the  ocean  of  night. 

I  come  down  from  my  look-out  and  steer  at  a  guess 
towards  my  neighbour  in  vigil,  and  come  upon  him 
with  outstretched  hand.  "Is  that  you?"  I  say  to 
him  in  a  subdued  voice,  though  I  don't  know  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  replies,  equally  ignorant  who  I  am,  blind 
like  myself.  "  It's  quiet  at  this  time,"  he  adds.  "  A 
bit  since  I  thought  they  were  going  to  attack,  and  they 
may  have  tried  it  on,  on  the  right,  where  they  chucked 
over  a  lot  of  bombs.  There's  been  a  barrage  of  75's — 
vrrrran,  vrrrran — Old  man,  I  said  to  myself,  '  Those 
75's,  p'raps  they've  good  reason  for  firing.  If  they  did 
come  out,  the  Boches,  they  must  have  found  some- 
thing.' Ticns,  listen,  down  there,  the  bullets  biffing 
themselves  !  " 

He  opens  his  flask  and  takes  a  draught,  and  his  last 
words,  still  subdued,  smell  of  wine  :  "  Ah,  la,  la  !  Talk 
about  a  filthy  war  !  Don't  you  think  we  should  be  a 
lot  better  at  home  !— Hullo  !  What's  the  matter  with 
the  ass  ?  "  A  rifle  has  rung  out  beside  us,  making 
a  brief  and  sudden  flash  of  phosphorescence.  Others 
go  off  here  and  there  along  our  line.  Rifle-shots  are 
catching  after  dark. 

We  go  to  inquire  of  one  of  the  shooters,  guessing  our 
way  through  the  solid  blackness  that  has  fallen  again 
upon  us  like  a  roof.  Stumbling,  and  thrown  anon  on 
each  other,  we  reach  the  man  and  touch  him — "  Well, 
what's  up?  " 

He  thought  he  saw  something  moving,  but  there  is 
nothing  more.  We  return  through  the  density,  my 
unknown  neighbour  and  I,  unsteady,  and  labouring 
along  the  narrow  way  of  slippery  mud,  doubled  up  as 
if  we  each  carried  a  crushing  burden.  At  one  point  of 
the  horizon  and  then  at  another  all  around,  a  gun  sounds, 
and  its  heavy  din  blends  with  the  volleys  of  rifle-fire, 
redoubled  one  minute  and  dying  out  the  next,  and  with 


224  UNDER  FIRE 

the  clusters  of  grenade-reports,  of  deeper  sound  than 
the  crack  of  Lebel  or  Mauser,  and  nearly  like  the  voice 
of  the  old  classical  rifles.  The  wind  has  again  increased ; 
it  is  so  strong  that  one  must  protect  himself  against  it 
in  the  darkness;  masses  of  huge  cloud  are  passing  in 
front  of  the  moon. 

So  there  we  are,  this  man  and  I,  jostling  without 
knowing  each  other,  revealed  and  then  hidden  from 
each  other  in  sudden  jerks  by  the  flashes  of  the  guns, 
oppressed  by  the  opacity,  the  centre  of  a  huge  circle 
of  fires  that  appear  and  disappear  in  the  devilish 
landscape. 

"  We're  under  a  curse,"  says  the  man. 

We  separate,  and  go  each  to  his  own  loophole,  to  weary 
our  eyes  upon  invisibility.  Is  some  frightful  and  dismal 
storm  about  to  break  ?  But  that  night  it  did  not.  At 
the  end  of  my  long  wait,  with  the  first  streaks  of  day, 
there  was  even  a  lull. 

Again  I  saw,  when  the  dawn  came  down  on  us  like 
a  stormy  evening,  the  steep  banks  of  our  crumbling  trench 
as  they  came  to  life  again  under  the  sooty  scarf  of  the 
low-hanging  clouds,  a  trench  dismal  and  dirty,  infinitely 
dirty,  humped  with  debris  and  filthiness.  Under  the 
livid  sky  the  sandbags  are  taking  the  same  hue,  and 
their  vaguely  shining  and  rounded  shapes  are  like  the 
bowels  and  viscera  of  giants,  nakedly  exposed  upon  the 
earth. 

In  the  trench-wall  behind  me,  in  a  hollowed  recess, 
there  is  a  heap  of  horizontal  things  like  logs.  Tree- 
trunks?  No,  they  are  corpses. 

****** 

As  the  call  of  birds  goes  up  from  the  furrowed  ground, 
as  the  shadowy  fields  are  renewed,  and  the  light  breaks 
and  adorns  each  blade  of  grass,  I  look  towards  the 
ravine.  Below  the  quickening  field  and  its  high  surges 
of  earth  and  burned  hollows,  beyond  the  bristling  of 
stakes,  there  is  still  a  lifeless  lake  of  shadow,  and  in 
front  of  the  opposite  slope  a  wall  of  night  still  stands. 

Then  I  turn  again  and  look  upon  these  dead  men 


UNDER  FIRE  225 

whom  the  day  is  gradually  exhuming,  revealing  their 
stained  and  stiffened  forms.  There  are  four  of  them. 
They  are  our  comrades,  Lamuse,  Barque,  Biquet,  and 
little  Eudore.  They  rot  there  quite  near  us,  blocking 
one  half  of  the  wide,  twisting,  and  muddy  furrow  that 
the  living  must  still  defend. 

They  have  been  laid  there  as  well  as  may  be,  support- 
ing and  crushing  each  other.  The  topmost  is  wrapped 
in  a  tent-cloth.  Handkerchiefs  had  been  placed  on  the 
faces  of  the  others;  but  in  brushing  against  them  in 
the  dark  without  seeing  them,  or  even  in  the  daytime 
without  noticing  them,  the  handkerchiefs  have  fallen, 
and  we  are  living  face  to  face  with  these  dead,  heaped  up 
there  like  a  wood-pile. 

****** 

It  was  four  nights  ago  that  they  were  all  killed  together. 
I  remember  the  night  myself  indistinctly — it  is  like  a 
dream.  We  were  on  patrol — they,  I,  Mesnil  Andre, 
and  Corporal  Bertrand ;  and  our  business  was  to  identify 
a  new  German  listening-post  marked  by  the  artillery 
observers.  We  left  the  trench  towards  midnight  and 
crept  down  the  slope  in  line,  three  or  four  paces  from 
each  other.  Thus  we  descended  far  into  the  ravine, 
and  saw,  lying  before  our  eyes,  the  embankment  of  their 
International  Trench.  After  we  had  verified  that  there 
was  no  listening-post  in  this  slice  of  the  ground  we 
climbed  back,  with  infinite  care.  Dimly  I  saw  my 
neighbours  to  right  and  left,  like  sacks  of  shadow, 
crawling,  slowly  sliding,  undulating  and  rocking  in  the 
mud  and  the  murk,  with  the  projecting  needle  in  front 
of  a  rifle.  Some  bullets  whistled  above  us,  but  they 
did  not  know  we  were  there,  they  were  not  looking  for 
us.  When  we  got  within  sight  of  the  mound  of  our 
line,  we  took  a  breather  for  a  moment ;  one  of  us  let  a 
sigh  go,  another  spoke.  Another  turned  round  bodily, 
and  the  sheath  of  his  bayonet  rang  out  against  a  stone. 
Instantly  a  rocket  shot  redly  up  from  the  International 
Trench.  We  threw  ourselves  flat  on  the  ground,  closely, 
desperately,  and  waited  there  motionless,  with  the 
Q 


226  UNDER  FIRE 

terrible  star  hanging  over  us  and  flooding  us  with  day- 
light, twenty-five  or  thirty  yards  from  our  trench. 
Then  a  machine-gun  on  the  other  side  of  the  ravine 
swept  the  zone  where  we  were.  Corporal  Bertrand 
and  I  had  had  the  luck  to  find  in  front  of  us,  just  as  the 
red  rocket  went  up  and  before  it  burst  into  light,  a 
shell-hole,  where  a  broken  trestle  was  steeped  in  the 
mud.  We  flattened  ourselves  against  the  edge  of  the 
hole,  buried  ourselves  in  the  mud  as  much  as  possible, 
and  the  poor  skeleton  of  rotten  wood  concealed  us. 
The  jet  of  the  machine-gun  crossed  several  times.  We 
heard  a  piercing  whistle  in  the  middle  of  each  report, 
the  sharp  and  violent  sound  of  bullets  that  went  into  the 
earth,  and  dull  and  soft  blows  as  well,  followed  by 
groans,  by  a  little  cry,  and  suddenly  by  a  sound  like  the 
heavy  snoring  of  a  sleeper,  a  sound  which  slowly  ebbed. 
Bertrand  and  I  waited,  grazed  by  the  horizontal  hail  of 
bullets  that  traced  a  network  of  death  an  inch  or  so 
above  us  and  sometimes  scraped  our  clothes,  driving 
us  still  deeper  into  the  mud,  nor  dared  we  risk  a  move- 
ment which  might  have  lifted  a  little  some  part  of  our 
bodies.  The  machine-gun  at  last  held  its  peace  in 
an  enormous  silence.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  we 
two  slid  out  of  the  shell-hole,  and  crawling  on  our 
elbows  we  fell  at  last  like  bundles  into  our  listening- 
post.  It  was  high  time,  too,  for  at  that  moment  the 
moon  shone  out.  We  were  obliged  to  stay  in  the  bottom 
of  the  trench  till  morning,  and  then  till  evening,  for  the 
machine-gun  swept  the  approaches  without  pause. 
We  could  not  see  the  prostrate  bodies  through  the  loop- 
holes of  the  post,  by  reason  of  the  steepness  of  the 
ground — except,  just  on  the  level  of  our  field  of  vision, 
a  lump  which  appeared  to  be  the  back  of  one  of  them. 
In  the  evening,  a  sap  was  dug  to  reach  the  place  where 
they  had  fallen.  The  work  could  not  be  finished  in 
one  night  and  was  resumed  by  the  pioneers  the  following 
night,  for,  overwhelmed  with  fatigue,  we  could  no  longer 
keep  from  falling  asleep. 
Awaking  from  a  leaden  sleep,  I  saw  the  four  corpses 


UNDER  FIRE  227 

that  the  sappers  had  reached  from  underneath,  hooking 
and  then  hauling  them  into  the  sap  with  ropes.  Each 
of  them  had  several  adjoining  wounds,  bullet-holes 
an  inch  or  so  apart — the  mitrailleuse  had  fired  fast. 
The  body  of  Mesnil  Andre  was  not  found,  and  his 
brother  Joseph  did  some  mad  escapades  in  search  of  it. 
He  went  out  quite  alone  into  No  Man's  Land,  where  the 
crossed  fire  of  machine-guns  swept  it  three  ways  at  once 
and  constantly.  In  the  morning,  dragging  himself  along 
like  a  slug,  he  showed  over  the  bank  a  face  black  with 
mud  and  horribly  wasted.  They  pulled  him  in  again, 
with  his  face  scratched  by  barbed  wire,  his  hands 
bleeding,  with  heavy  clods  of  mud  in  the  folds  of  his 
clothes,  and  stinking  of  death.  Like  an  idiot  he  kept 
on  saying,  "  He's  nowhere."  He  buried  himself  in 
a  corner  with  his  rifle,  which  he  set  himself  to  clean 
without  hearing  what  was  said  to  him,  and  only  repeating 
"  He's  nowhere." 

It  is  four  nights  ago  since  that  night,  and  as  the 
dawn  comes  once  again  to  cleanse  the  earthly  Gehenna, 
the  bodies  are  becoming  definitely  distinct. 

Barque  in  his  rigidity  seems  immoderately  long, 
his  arms  lie  closely  to  the  body,  his  chest  has  sunk,  his 
belly  is  hollow  as  a  basin.  With  his  head  upraised  by 
a  lump  of  mud,  he  looks  over  his  feet  at  those  who  come 
up  on  the  left;  his  face  is  dark  and  polluted  by  the 
clammy  stains  of  disordered  hair,  and  his  wide  and 
scalded  eyes  are  heavily  encrusted  with  blackened  blood. 
Eudore  seems  very  small  by  contrast,  and  his  little 
face  is  completely  white,  so  white  as  to  remind  you  of 
the  befloured  face  of  a  pierrot,  and  it  is  touching  to  see 
that  little  circle  of  white  paper  among  the  grey  and 
bluish  tints  of  the  corpses.  The  Breton  Biquet,  squat 
and  square  as  a  flagstone,  appears  to  be  under  the 
stress  of  a  huge  effort ;  he  might  be  trying  to  uplift  the 
misty  darkness;  and  the  extreme  exertion  overflows 
upon  the  protruding  cheek-bones  and  forehead  of  his 
grimacing  face,  contorts  it  hideously,  sets  the  dried  and 
dusty  hair  bristling,  divides  his  jaws  in  a  spectral  cry, 


228  UNDER  FIRE 

and  spreads  wide  the  eyelids  from  his  lightless  troubled 
eyes,  his  flinty  eyes;  and  his  hands  are  contracted  in 
a  clutch  upon  empty  air. 

Barque  and  Biquet  were  shot  in  the  belly;  Eudore 
in  the  throat.  In  the  dragging  and  carrying  they  were 
further  injured.  Big  Lamuse,  at  last  bloodless,  had  a 
puffed  and  creased  face,  and  the  eyes  were  gradually 
sinking  in  their  sockets,  one  more  than  the  other.  They 
have  wrapped  him  in  a  tent-cloth,  and  it  shows  a  dark 
stain  where  the  neck  is.  His  right  shoulder  has  been 
mangled  by  several  bullets,  and  the  arm  is  held  on  only 
by  strips  of  the  sleeve  and  by  threads  that  they  have 
put  in  since.  The  first  night  he  was  placed  there,  this 
arm  hung  outside  the  heap  of  dead,  and  the  yellow 
hand,  curled  up  on  a  lump  of  earth,  touched  passers-by 
in  the  face;  so  they  pinned  the  arm  to  the  greatcoat. 

A  pestilential  vapour  begins  to  hover  about  the 
remains  of  these  beings  with  whom  we  lived  so  intimately 
and  suffered  so  long. 

When  we  see  them  we  say,  "  They  are  dead,  all  four  "  ; 
but  they  are  too  far  disfigured  for  us  to  say  truly,  "  It 
is  they,"  and  one  must  turn  away  from  the  motionless 
monsters  to  feel  the  void  they  have  left  among  us  and 
the  familiar  things  that  have  been  wrenched  away. 

Men  of  other  companies  or  regiments,  strangers  who 
come  this  way  by  day — by  night  one  leans  unconsciously 
on  everything  within  reach  of  the  hand,  dead  or  alive — 
give  a  start  when  faced  by  these  corpses  flattened  one 
on  the  other  in  the  open  trench.  Sometimes  they  are 
angry — "  What  are  they  thinking  about  to  leave  those 
stiffs  there?"— "It's  shameful."  Then  they  add, 
"  It's  true  they  can't  be  taken  away  from  there."  And 
they  were  only  buried  in  the  night. 

Morning  has  come.  Opposite  us  we  see  the  other 
slope  of  the  ravine,  Hill  119,  an  eminence  scraped, 
stripped,  and  scratched,  veined  with  shaken  trenches 
and  lined  with  parallel  cuttings  that  vividly  reveal  the 
clay  and  the  chalky  soil.  Nothing  is  stirring  there; 
and  our  shells  that  burst  in  places  with  wide  spouts  of 


UNDER  FIRE  229 

foam  like  huge  billows  seem  to  deliver  their  resounding 
blows  upon  a  great  breakwater,  ruined  and  abandoned. 

My  spell  of  vigil  is  finished,  and  the  other  sentinels, 
enveloped  in  damp  and  trickling  tent-cloths,  with  their 
stripes  and  plasters  of  mud  and  their  livid  jaws,  dis- 
engage themselves  from  the  soil  wherein  they  are 
moulded,  bestir  themselves,  and  come  down.  For  us, 
it  is  rest  until  evening. 

We  yawn  and  stroll.  We  see  a  comrade  pass  and  then 
another.  Officers  go  to  and  fro,  armed  with  periscopes 
and  telescopes.  We  feel  our  feet  again,  and  begin  once 
more  to  live.  The  customary  remarks  cross  and  clash ; 
and  were  it  not  for  the  dilapidated  outlook,  the  sunken 
lines  of  the  trench  that  buries  us  on  the  hillside,  and  the 
veto  on  our  voices,  we  might  fancy  ourselves  in  the  rear 
lines.  But  lassitude  weighs  upon  all  of  us,  our  faces 
are  jaundiced  and  the  eyelids  reddened;  through  long 
watching  we  look  as  if  we  had  been  weeping.  For 
several  days  now  we  have  all  of  us  been  sagging  and 
growing  old. 

One  after  another  the  men  of  my  squad  have  made 
a  confluence  at  a  curve  in  the  trench.  They  pile  them- 
selves where  the  soil  is  only  chalky,  and  where,  above 
the  crust  that  bristles  with  severed  roots,  the  excavations 
have  exposed  some  beds  of  white  stones  that  had  lain 
in  the  darkness  for  over  a  hundred  thousand  years. 

There  in  the  widened  fairway,  Bertrand's  squad 
beaches  itself.  It  is  much  reduced  this  time,  for  beyond 
the  losses  of  the  other  night,  we  no  longer  have  Poterloo, 
killed  in  a  relief,  nor  Cadilhac,  wounded  in  the  leg  by  a 
splinter  the  same  evening  as  Poterloo,  nor  Tirloir  nor 
Tulacque  who  have  been  sent  back,  the  one  for  dysentery, 
and  the  other  for  pneumonia,  which  is  taking  an  ugly 
turn — as  he  says  in  the  postcards  which  he  sends  us 
as  a  pastime  from  the  base  hospital  where  he  is  vegetating. 

Once  more  I  see  gathered  and  grouped,  soiled  by 
contact  with  the  earth  and  dirty  smoke,  the  familiar 
faces  and  poses  of  those  who  have  not  been  separated 
since  the  beginning,  chained  and  riveted  together  in 


230  UNDER  FIRE 

fraternity.     But  there  is  less  dissimilarity  than  at  the 
beginning  in  the  appearance  of  the  cave-men. 

Papa  Blaire  displays  in  his  well-worn  mouth  a  set 
of  new  teeth,  so  resplendent  that  one  can  see  nothing 
in  all  his  poor  face  except  those  gaily-dight  jaws.  The 
great  event  of  these  foreign  teeth's  establishment, 
which  he  is  taming  by  degrees  and  sometimes  uses  for 
eating,  has  profoundly  modified  his  character  and  his 
manners.  He  is  rarely  besmeared  with  grime,  he  is 
hardly  slovenly.  Now  that  he  has  become  handsome  he 
feels  it  necessary  to  become  elegant.  For  the  moment 
he  is  dejected,  because — a  miracle  ! — he  cannot  wash 
himself.  Deeply  sunk  in  a  corner,  he  half  opens  a  lack- 
lustre eye,  bites  and  masticates  his  old  soldier's  mous- 
tache— not  long  ago  the  only  ornament  on  his  face — 
and  from  time  to  time  spits  out  a  hair. 

Fouillade  is  shivering,  cold-smitten,  or  yawns,  de- 
pressed and  shabby.  Marthereau  has  not  changed  at 
all.  He  is  still  as  always  well-bearded,  his  eye  round 
and  blue,  and  his  legs  so  short  that  his  trousers  seem  to 
be  slipping  continually  from  his  waist  and  dropping  to 
his  feet.  Cocon  is  always  Cocon  by  the  dried  and 
parchment-liBb  head  wherein  sums  are  working;  but 
a  recurrence  of  lice,  the  ravages  of  which  we  see  over- 
flowing on  to  his  neck  and  wrists,  has  isolated  him  for 
a  week  now  in  protracted  tussles  which  leave  him  surly 
when  he  returns  among  us.  Paradis  retains  unimpaired 
the  same  quantum  of  good  colour  and  good  temper; 
he  is  unchanging,  perennial.  We  smile  when  he  appears 
in  the  distance,  placarded  on  the  background  of  sand- 
bags like  a  new  poster.  Nothing  has  changed  in  Pepin 
either,  whom  we  can  just  see  taking  a  stroll — we  can 
tell  him  behind  by  his  red-and-white  squares  of  an 
oilcloth  draught-board,  and  in  front  by  his  blade-like 
face  and  the  gleam  of  a  knife  in  his  cold  grey  look. 
Nor  has  Volpatte  changed,  with  his  leggings,  his 
shouldered  blanket,  and  his  face  of  a  Mongolian  tattooed 
with  dirt;  nor  Tirette,  although  he  has  been  worried 
for  some  time  by  blood-red  streaks  in  his  eyes — for  some 


UNDER  FIRE  231 

unknown  and  mysterious  reason.  Farfadet  keeps  him- 
self aloof,  in  pensive  expectation.  When  the  post  is 
being  given  out  he  awakes  from  his  reverie  to  go  so 
far,  and  then  retires  into  himself.  His  clerkly  hands 
indite  numerous  and  careful  postcards.  He  does  not 
know  of  Eudoxie's  end.  Lamuse  said  no  more  to  any 
one  of  the  ultimate  and  awful  embrace  in  which  he  clasped 
her  body.  He  regretted — I  knew  it — his  whispered 
confidence  to  me  that  evening,  and  up  ^o  his  death  he 
kept  the  horrible  affair  sacred  to  himself,  with  tenacious 
bashfulness.  So  we  see  Farfadet  continuing  to  live  his 
airy  existence  with  the  living  likeness  of  that  fair  hair, 
which  he  only  leaves  for  the  scarce  monosyllables  of  his 
contact  with  us.  Corporal  Bertrand  has  still  the  same 
soldierly  and  serious  mien  among  us ;  he  is  always 
ready  with  his  tranquil  smile  to  answer  all  questions 
with  lucid  explanations,  to  help  each  of  us  to  do  his 
duty. 

We  are  chatting  as  of  yore,  as  not  long  since.  But 
the  necessity  of  speaking  in  low  tones  diminishes  our 
remarks  and  imposes  on  them  a  lugubrious  tranquillity. 
****** 

Something  unusual  has  happened.  Jpor  the  last 
three  months  the  sojourn  of  each  unit  in  the  first-line 
trenches  has  been  four  days.  Yet  we  have  now  been 
five  days  here  and  there  is  no  mention  of  relief.  Some 
rumours  of  early  attack  are  going  about,  brought  by 
the  liaison  men  and  those  of  the  fatigue-party  that 
renews  our  rations  every  other  night — without  regularity 
or  guarantee.  Other  portents  are  adding  themselves 
to  the  whispers  of  offensive — the  stopping  of  leave, 
the  failure  of  the  post,  the  obvious  change  in  the  officers, 
who  are  serious  and  closer  to  us.  But  talk  on  this  subject 
always  ends  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders ;  the  soldier 
is  never  warned  what  is  to  be  done  with  him;  they 
put  a  bandage  on  his  eyes,  and  only  remove  it  at  the 
last  minute.  So,  "We  shall  see."— "  We  can  only 
wait." 

We  detach  ourselves  from  the  tragic  event  foreboded. 


232  UNDER  FIRE 

Is  this  because  of  the  impossibility  of  a  complete  under- 
standing, or  a  despondent  unwillingness  to  decipher 
those  orders  that  are  sealed  letters  to  us,  or  a  lively 
faith  that  one  will  pass  through  the  peril  once  more  ? 
Always,  in  spite  of  *  the  premonitory  signs  and  the 
prophecies  that  seem  to  be  coming  true,  we  fall  back 
automatically  upon  the  cares  of  the  moment  and  absorb 
ourselves  in  them — hunger,  thirst,  the  lice  whose 
crushing  ensanguines  all  our  nails,  the  great  weariness 
that  saps  us  all. 

"  Seen  Joseph  this  morning?  "  says  Volpatte.  "  He 
doesn't  look  very  grand,  poor  lad." 

"  He'll  do  something  daft,  certain  sure.  He's  as  good 
as  a  goner,  that  lad,  mind  you.  First  chance  he  has 
he'll  jump  in  front  of  a  bullet.  I  can  see  he  will." 

"  It'd  give  any  one  the  pip  for  the  rest  of  his  natural. 
There  were  six  brothers  of  'em,  you  know;  four  of 
'em  killed;  two  in  Alsace,  one  in  Champagne,  one  in 
Argonne.  If  Andre's  killed  he's  the  fifth." 

"  If  he'd  been  killed  they'd  have  found  his  body — 
they'd  have  seen  it  from  the  observation-post;  you 
can't  lose  the  rump  and  the  thighs.  My  idea  is  that  the 
night  they  we^|  on  patrol  he  went  astray  coming  back — 
crawled  right  round,  poor  devil,  and  fell  right  into  the 
Boche  lines." 

"  Perhaps  he  got  sewn  up  in  their  wire." 

"  I  tell  you  they'd  have  found  him  if  he'd  been  done 
in;  you  know  jolly  well  the  Boches  wouldn't  have 
brought  the  body  in.  And  we  looked  everywhere. 
As  long  as  he's  not  been  found  you  can  take  it  from 
me  that  he's  got  away  somewhere  on  his  feet,  wounded 
or  un wounded." 

This  so  logical  theory  finds  favour,  and  now  it  is 
known  that  Mesnil  Andre  is  a  prisoner  there  is  less 
interest  in  him.  But  his  brother  continues  to  be  a 
pitiable  object — "  Poor  old  chap,  he's  so  young  !  " 
And  the  men  of  the  squad  look  at  him  secretly. 

"  I've  got  a  twist  !  "  says  Cocon  suddenly.  The  hour 
of  dinner  has  gone  past  and  we  are  demanding  it.  There 


UNDER  FIRE  233 

appears  to  be  only  the  remains  of  what  was  brought 
the  night  before. 

"  What's  the  corporal  thinking  of  to  starve  us  ?  There 
he  is — I'll  go  and  get  hold  of  him.  Hey,  corporal ! 
Why  can't  you  get  us  something  to  eat  ?  " — ;'  Yes,  yes — 
something  to  eat  !  "  re-echoes  the  destiny  of  these 
eternally  hungry  men. 

"  I'm  coming,"  says  bustling  Bertrand,  who  keeps 
going  both  day  and  night. 

"  What  then?  "  says  Pepin,  always  hot-headed.  "  I 
don't  feel  like  chewing  macaroni  again ;  I  shall  open  a 
tin  of  meat  in  less  than  two  sees  !  "  The  daily  comedy 
of  dinner  steps  to  the  front  again  in  this  drama. 

"  Don't  touch  your  reserve  rations  !  "  says  Bertrand; 
"  as  soon  as  I'm  back  from  seeing  the  captain  I'll  get 
you  something." 

When  he  returns  he  brings  and  distributes  a  salad  of 
potatoes  and  onions,  and  as  mastication  proceeds  our 
features  relax  and  our  eyes  become  composed. 

For  the  ceremony  of  eating,  Paradis  has  hoisted  a 
policeman's  hat.  It  is  hardly  the  right  place  or  time 
for  it,  but  the  hat  is  quite  new,  and  the  tailor,  who 
promised  it  for  three  months  ago,  only  ^livered  it  the 
day  we  came  up.  The  pliant  two-cornered  hat  of  bright 
blue  cloth  on  his  flourishing  round  head  gives  him  the 
look  of  a  pasteboard  gendarme  with  red-painted  cheeks. 
Nevertheless,  all  the  while  he  is  eating,  Paradis  looks  at 
me  steadily.  I  go  up  to  him.  "  You've  a  funny  old 
face." 

"  Don't  worry  about  it,"  he  replies.  "  I  want  a  chat 
with  you.  Come  with  me  and  see  something." 

His  hand  goes  out  to  his  half -full  cup  placed  beside 
his  dinner  things;  he  hesitates,  and  then  decides  to 
put  his  wine  in  a  safe  place  down  his  gullet,  and  the  cup 
in  his  pocket.  He  moves  off  and  I  follow  him. 

In  passing  he  picks  up  his  helmet  that  gapes  on  the 
earthen  bench.  After  a  dozen  paces  he  comes  close 
to  me  and  says  in  a  low  voice  and  with  a  queer  air, 
without  looking  at  me — as  he  does  when  he  is  upset — 


234  UNDER  FIRE 

"  I  know  where  Mesnil  Andre"  is.  Would  you  like  to 
see  him  ?  Come,  then." 

So  saying,  he  takes  off  his  police  hat,  folds  and  pockets 
it,  and  puts  on  his  helmet.  He  sets  off  again  and  I 
follow  him  without  a  word. 

He  leads  me  fifty  yards  farther,  towards  the  place 
where  our  common  dug-out  is,  and  the  footbridge  of 
sandbags  under  which  one  always  slides  with  the  im- 
pression that  the  muddy  arch  will  collapse  on  one's 
back.  After  the  footbridge,  a  hollow  appears  in  the 
wall  o*  the  trench,  with  a  step  made  of  a  hurdle  stuck 
fast  in  the  clay.  Paradis  climbs  there,  and  motions 
to  me  to  follow  him  on  to  the  narrow  and  slippery 
platform.  There  was  recently  a  sentry's  loophole  here, 
and  it  has  been  destroyed  and  made  again  lower  down 
with  a  couple  of  bullet-screens.  One  is  obliged  to  stoop 
low  lest  his  head  rise  above  the  contrivance. 

Paradis  says  to  me,  still  in  the  same  low  voice,  "  It's 
me  that  fixed  up  those  two  shields,  so  as  to  see — for  I'd 
got  an  idea,  and  I  wanted  to  see.  Put  your  eye  to  this 
hole." 

"  I  don't  see  anything ;  the  hole's  stopped  up.  What's 
that  lump  of  ($th  ?  " 

"  It's  him,"  says,  Paradis. 

Ah  !  It  was  a  corpse,  a  corpse  sitting  in  a  hole,  and 
horribly  near 

Having  flattened  my  face  against  the  steel  plate  and 
glued  my  eye  to  the  hole  in  the  bullet-screen,  I  saw  all 
of  it.  He  was  squatting,  the  head  hanging  forward 
between  the  legs,  both  arms  placed  on  his  knees,  his 
hands  hooked  and  half  closed.  He  was  easily  identifiable 
— so  near,  so  near  ! — in  spite  of  his  squinting  and  lightless 
eyes,  by  the  mass  of  his  muddy  beard  and  the  distorted 
mouth  that  revealed  the  teeth.  He  looked  as  if  he  were 
both  smiling  and  grimacing  at  his  rifle,  stuck  straight 
up  in  the  mud  before  him.  His  outstretched  hands  were 
quite  blue  above  and  scarlet  underneath,  crimsoned  by 
a  damp  and  hellish  reflection. 

It  was  he,  rain -washed  and  besmeared  with  a  sort  of 


UNDER  FIRE  235 

scum,  polluted  and  dreadfully  pale,  four  days  dead, 
and  close  up  to  our  embankment  into  which  the  shell- 
hole  where  he  had  burrowed  had  bitten.  We  had  not 
found  him  because  he  was  too  near  ! 

Between  this  derelict  dead  in  its  unnatural  solitude 
and  the  men  who  inhabited  the  dug-out  there  was  only 
a  slender  partition  of  earth,  and  I  realise  that  the  place 
in  it  where  I  lay  my  head  corresponds  to  the  spot 
buttressed  by  this  dreadful  body. 

I  withdraw  my  face  from  the  peep-hole  and  Paradis 
and  I  exchange  glances.  "  Mustn't  tell  him  yet,"  my 

companion  whispers.    "  No,  we  mustn't,  not  at  once " 

"  I  spoke  to  the  captain  about  rooting  him  out,  and 
he  said,  too,  '  We  mustn't  mention  it  now  to  the  lad.' ' 
A  light  breath  of  wind  goes  by.     "  I  can  smell  it  !  " — 
"  Rather ! "     The    odour    enters    our    thoughts    and 
capsizes  our  very  hearts. 

"  So  now,"  says  Paradis,  "  Joseph's  left  alone,  out 
of  six  brothers.  And  I'll  tell  you  what — I  don't  think 
he'll  stop  long.  The  lad  won't  take  care  of  himself — 
he'll  get  himself  done  in.  A  lucky  wound's  got  to  drop 
on  him  from  the  sky,  otherwise  he's  corpsed.  Six 
brothers — it's  too  bad,  that !  Don't  yofi  think  it's  too 
bad?"  He  added,  "  It's  astonishing  that  he  was  so 
near  us." 

"  His  arm's  just  against  the  spot  where  I  put  my  head." 
"  Yes,"  says  Paradis,  "  his  right  arm,  where  there's 
a  wrist- watch." 

The  watch — I  stop  short — is  it  a  fancy,  a  dream? 
It  seems  to  me — yes,  I  am  sure  now — that  three  days 
ago,  the  night  when  we  were  so  tired  out,  before  I  went 
to  sleep  I  heard  what  sounded  like  the  ticking  of  a  watch 
and  even  wondered  where  it  could  come  from. 

"  It  was  very  likely  that  watch  you  heard  all  the 
same,  through  the  earth,"  says  Paradis,  whom  I  have 
told  some  of  my  thoughts ;  "  they  go  on  thinking  and 
turning  round  even  when  the  chap  stops.  Damn,  your 
own  ticker  doesn't  know  you — it  just  goes  quietly  on 
making  little  circles." 


236  UNDER  FIRE 

I  asked,  "  There's  blood  on  his  hands;  but  where  was 
he  hit  ?  " 

"  Don't  know;  in  the  belly,  I  think;  I  thought  there 
was  something  dark  underneath  him.  Or  perhaps  in  the 
face — did  you  notice  the  little  stain  on  the  cheek?  " 

I  recall  the  hairy  and  greenish  face  of  the  dead  man. 
"  Yes,  there  was  something  on  the  cheek.  Yes,  perhaps 
it  went  in  there " 

"  Look  out !  "  says  Paradis  hurriedly,  "  there  he  is  ! 
We  ought  not  to  have  stayed  here." 

But  we  stay  all  the  same,  irresolutely  wavering, 
as  Mesnil  Joseph  conies  straight  up  to  us.  Never  did 
he  seem  so  frail  to  us.  We  can  see  his  pallor  afar  ofi, 
his  oppressed  and  unnatural  expression ;  he  is  bowed 
as  he  walks,  and  goes  slowly,  borne  down  by  endless 
fatigue  and  his  immovable  notion. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  your  face  ?  "  he  asks  me — 
he  has  seen  me  point  out  to  Paradis  the  possible  entry 
of  the  bullet.  I  pretend  not  to  understand  and  then 
make  some  kind  of  evasive  reply.  All  at  once  I  have  a 
torturing  idea — the  smell !  It  is  there,  and  there  is 
no  mistaking  it.  It  reveals  a  corpse;  and  perhaps  he 
will  guess  rightly 

It  seems  to  me  that  he  has  suddenly  smelt  the  sign — 
the  pathetic,  lamentable  appeal  of  the  dead.  But  he 
says  nothing,  continues  his  solitary  walk,  and  disappears 
round  the  corner. 

"  Yesterday,"  says  Paradis  to  me,  "  he  came  just  here, 
with  his  mess-tin  full  of  rice  that  he  didn't  want  to  eat. 
Just  as  if  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  the  fool  stops 
here  and  talks  of  pitching  the  rest  of  his  food  over  the 
bank,  just  on  the  spot  where — where  the  other  was. 
I  couldn't  stick  that,  old  chap.  I  grabbed  his  arm  just 
as  he  chucked  the  rice  into  the  air,  and  it  flopped  down 
here  in  the  trench.  Old  man,  he  turned  round  on  me 
in  a  rage  and  all  red  in  the  face,  '  What  the  hell's  up 
with  you  now  ?  '  he  says.  I  looked  as  fat-headed  as  I 
could,  and  mumbled  some  rot  about  not  doing  it  on 
purpose.  He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  looks  at  me  same 


UNDER   FIRE  237 

as  if  I  was  dirt.  He  goes  off,  saying  to  himself,  '  Did 
you  see  him,  the  blockhead  ?  '  He's  bad-tempered,  you 
know,  the  poor  chap,  and  I  couldn't  complain.  '  All 
right,  all  right,'  he  kept  saying;  and  I  didn't  like  it, 
you  know,  because  I  did  wrong  all  the  time,  although 
I  was  right." 

We  go  back  together  in  silence  and  re-enter  the  dug- 
out where  the  others  are  gathered.  It  is  an  old  head- 
quarters post,  and  spacious.  Just  as  we  slide  in,  Paradis 
listens.  "  Our  batteries  have  been  playing  extra  hell 
for  the  last  hour,  don't  you  think?  " 

I  know  what  he  means,  and  reply  with  an  empty 
gesture,  "  We  shall  see,  old  man,  we  shall  see  all 
right  !  " 

In  the  dug-out,  to  an  audience  of  three,  Tirette  is 
again  pouring  out  his  barrack-life  tales.  Marthereau 
is  snoring  in  a  corner ;  he  is  close  to  the  entry,  and  to 
get  down  we  have  to  stride  over  his  short  legs,  which 
seem  to  have  gone  back  into  his  trunk.  A  group  of 
kneeling  men  around  a  folded  blanket  are  playing  with 
cards — 

"  My  turn  !  "  -"  40,  42  [—48  1—49  !— Good  !  " 

"Isn't  he  lucky,  that  game-bird;  it's  imposs',  I've 
got  stumped  three  times — I  want  nothing  more  to  do 
with  you.  You're  skinning  me  this  evening,  and  you 
robbed  me  the  other  day,  too,  you  infernal  fritter  !  " — 
"  What  did  you  revoke  for,  mugwump?  " — "  I'd  only 
the  king,  nothing  else." 

"  All  the  same,"  murmurs  some  one  who  is  eating 
in  a  corner,  "  this  Camembert,  it  cost  twenty-five  sous, 
but  you  talk  about  muck  !  Outside  there's  a  layer  of 
sticky  glue,  and  inside  it's  plaster  that  breaks." 

Meanwhile  Tirette  relates  the  outrages  inflicted  on 
him  during  his  twenty-one  days  of  training  owing  to 
the  quarrelsome  temper  of  a  certain  major  :  "  A  great 
hog  he  was,  my  boy,  everything  rotten  on  this  earth. 
All  the  lot  of  us  looked  foul  when  he  went  by  or  when 
we  saw  him  in  the  officers'  room  spread  out  on  a 
chair  that  you  couldn't  see  underneath  him,  with  his 


238  UNDER  FIRE 

vast  belly  and  huge  cap,  and  circled  round  with  stripes 
from  top  to  bottom,  like  a  barrel — he  was  hard  on  the 
private  !  They  called  him  Loeb — a  Boche,  you  see  !  " 

"  I  knew  him  !  "  cried  Paradis;  "  when  war  started 
he  was  declared  unfit  for  active  service,  naturally. 
While  I  was  doing  my  term  he  was  a  dodger  already — 
but  he  dodged  round  all  the  street  corners  to  pinch  you — 
you  got  a  day's  clink  for  an  unbuttoned  button,  and  he 
gave  it  you  over  and  above  if  there  was  some  bit  of  a 
thing  about  you  that  wasn't  quite  O.K. — and  everybody 
laughed.  He  thought  they  were  laughing  at  you,  and 
you  knew  they  were  laughing  at  him,  but  you  knew  it 
in  vain,  you  were  in  it  up  to  your  head  for  the  clink." 

"  He  had  a  wife,"  Tirette  goes  on,  "  the  old " 

"  I  remember  her,  too,"  Paradis  exclaimed.  "  You 
talk  about  a  bitch  !  " 

"  Some  of  'em  drag  a  little  pug-dog  about  with  'em, 
but  him,  he  trailed  that  yellow  minx  about  everywhere, 
with  her  broom-handle  hips  and  her  wicked  look.  It 
was  her  that  worked  the  old  sod  up  against  us.  He  was 
more  stupid  than  wicked,  but  as  soon  as  she  was  there 
he  got  more  wicked  than  stupid.  So  you  bet  they 
were  some  nuisance " 

Just  then,  Marthereau  wakes  up  from  his  sleep  by 
the  entry  with  a  half -groan.  He  straightens  himself 
up,  sitting  on  his  straw  like  a  gaol-bird,  and  we  see  his 
bearded  silhouette  take  the  vague  outline  of  a  Chinese, 
while  his  round  eye  rolls  and  turns  in  the  shadows.  He 
is  looking  at  his  dreams  of  a  moment  ago.  Then  he 
passes  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and — as  if  it  had  some 
connection  with  his  dream — recalls  the  scene  that  night 
when  we  came  up  to  the  trenches — 

"  For  all  that,"  he  says,  in  a  voice  weighty  with 
slumber  and  reflection,  "  there  were  some  half-seas-over 
that  night  !  Ah,  what  a  night  !  All  those  troops, 
companies  and  whole  regiments,  yelling  and  surging 
all  the  way  up  the  road  !  In  the  thinnest  of  the  dark 
you  could  see  the  jumble  of  poilus  that  went  on  and  up — 
like  the  sea  itself,  you'd  say — and  carrying  on  across 


UNDER  FIRE  239 

all  the  convoys  of  artillery  and  ambulance  wagons  that 
we  met  that  night.  I've  never  seen  so  many,  so  many 
convoys  in  the  night,  never  !  "  Then  he  deals  himself 
a  thump  on  the  chest,  settles  down  again  in  self-posses- 
sion, groans,  and  says  no  more. 

Blaire's  voice  rises,  giving  expression  to  the  haunting 
thought  that  wakes  in  the  depths  of  the  men  : .  "  It's 
four  o'clock.  It's  too  late  for  there  to  be  anything 
from  our  side." 

One  of  the  gamesters  in  the  other  corner  yelps  a 
question  at  another  :  "  Now  then?  Are  you  going  to 
play  or  aren't  you,  worm-face  ?  " 

Tirette  continues  the  story  of  his  major  :  "  Behold 
one  day  they'd  served  us  at  the  barracks  with  some 
suetty  soup.  Old  man,  a  disease,  it  was  !  So  a  chap 
asks  to  speak  to  the  captain,  and  holds  his  mess-tin  up 
to  his  nose." 

"  Numskull !  "  some  one  shouts  in  the  other  corner. 
"  Why  didn't  you  trump,  then  ?  " 

"  '  Ah,  damn  it,'  said  the  captain,  '  take  it  away 
from  my  nose,  it  positively  stinks.' ' 

"  It  wasn't  my  game,"  quavers  a  discontented  but 
unconvinced  voice. 

"  And  the  captain,  he  makes  a  report  to  the  major. 
But  behold  the  major,  mad  as  the  devil,  he  butts  in, 
shaking  the  paper  in  his  paw  :  '  What's  this  ?  '  he  says. 
'  Where's  the  soup  that  has  caused  this  rebellion,  that  I 
may  taste  it  ?  '  They  bring  him  some  in  a  clean  mess- 
tin  and  he  sniffs  it.  '  What  now  ! '  he  says,  '  it  smells 
good.  They  damned  well  shan't  have  it  then,  rich  soup 
like  this  ! '  " 

"  Not  your  game  !  And  he  was  leading,  too  ! 
Bungler  !  It's  unlucky,  you  know." 

"  Then  at  five  o'clock  as  we  were  coming  out  of 
barracks,  our  two  marvels  butt  in  again  and  plank 
themselves  in  front  of  the  swaddies  coming  out,  trying 
to  spot  some  little  thing  not  quite  so,  and  he  said, 
'  Ah,  my  bucks,  you  thought  you'd  score  off  me  by 
complaining  of  this  excellent  soup  that  I  have  consumed 


240  UNDER  FIRE 

myself  along  with  my  partner  here ;  just  wait  and  see 
if  I  don't  get  even  with  you.  Hey,  you  with  the  long 
hair,  the  tall  artist,  come  here  a  minute  !  '  And  all  the 
time  the  beast  was  jawing,  his  bag-o' -bones — as  straight 
and  thin  as  a  post — went  '  oui,  oui '  with  her  head." 

"  That  depends ;  if  he  hadn't  a  trump,  it's  another 
matter." 

"  But  all  of  a  sudden  we  see  her  go  white  as  a  sheet, 
she  puts  her  fist  on  her  tummy  and  she  shakes  like  all 
that,  and  then  suddenly,  in  front  of  all  the  fellows  that 
filled  the  square,  she  drops  her  umbrella  and  starts 
spewing  !  " 

"  Hey,  listen  !  "  says  Paradis,  sharply,  "  they're 
shouting  in  the  trench.  Don't  you  hear?  Isn't  it 
'  alarm  !  '  they're  shouting  ?  " 

"  Alarm  ?     Are  you  mad  ?  " 

The  words  were  hardly  said  when  a  shadow  conies  in 
through  the  low  doorway  of  our  dug-out  and  cries — 
"  Alarm,  22nd  !  Stand  to  arms  !  " 

A  moment  of  silence  and  then  several  exclamations. 
"  I  knew  it,"  murmurs  Paradis  between  his  teeth,  and 
he  goes  on  his  knees  towards  the  opening  into  the  mole- 
hill that  shelters  us.  Speech  then  ceases  and  we  seem 
to  be  struck  dumb.  Stooping  or  kneeling  we  bestir 
ourselves;  we  buckle  on  our  waist-belts;  shadowy 
arms  dart  from  one  side  to  another;  pockets  are  rum- 
maged. And  we  issue  forth  pell-mell,  dragging  our 
knapsacks  behind  us  by  the  straps,  our  blankets  and 
pouches. 

Outside  we  are  deafened.  The  roar  of  gunfire  has 
increased  a  hundredfold,  to  left,  to  right,  and  in  front 
of  us.  Our  batteries  give  voice  without  ceasing. 

"  Do  you  think  they're  attacking?  "  ventures  a  man. 
"How  should  I  know?"  replies  another  voice  with 
irritated  brevity. 

Our  jaws  are  set  and  we  swallow  our  thoughts,  hurry- 
ing, bustling,  colliding,  and  grumbling  without  words. 

A  command  goes  forth — "  Shoulder  your  packs  !  " — 
"  There's  a  counter-command "  shouts  an  officer 


UNDER  FIRE  241 

who  runs  down  the  trench  with  great  strides,  working 
his  elbows,  and  the  rest  of  his  sentence  disappears  with 
him.  A  counter-command  !  A  visible  tremor  has  run 
through  the  files,  a  start  which  uplifts  our  heads  and 
holds  us  all  in  extreme  expectation. 

But  no;  the  counter-order  only  concerns  the  knap- 
sacks. No  pack;  but  the  blanket  rolled  round  the 
body,  and  the  trenching-tool  at  the  waist.  We  unbuckle 
our  blankets,  tear  them  open  and  roll  them  up.  Still 
no  word  is  spoken;  each  has  a  steadfast  eye  and  the 
mouth  forcefully  shut.  The  corporals  and  sergeants 
go  here  and  there,  feverishly  spurring  the  silent  haste 
in  which  the  men  are  bowed  :  "  Now  then,  hurry  up  ! 
Come,  come,  what  the  hell  are  you  doing?  Will  you 
hurry,  yes  or  no  ?  " 

A  detachment  of  soldiers  with  a  badge  of  crossed  axes 
on  their  sleeves  clear  themselves  a  fairway  and  swiftly 
delve  holes  in  the  wall  of  the  trench.  We  watch  them 
sideways  as  we  don  our  equipment. 

"  What  are  they  doing,  those  chaps  ?  " — "  It's  to 
climb  up  by." 

We  are  ready.  The  men  marshal  themselves,  still 
silently,  their  blankets  crosswise,  the  helmet-strap  on 
the  chin,  leaning  on  their  rifles.  I  look  at  their  pale, 
contracted,  and  reflective  faces. 

They  are  not  soldiers,  they  are  men.  They  are  not 
adventurers,  or  warriors,  or  made  for  human  slaughter, 
neither  butchers  nor  cattle.  They  are  labourers  and 
artisans  whom  one  recognises  in  their  uniforms.  They 
are  civilians  uprooted,  and  they  are  ready.  They  await 
the  signal  for  death  or  murder ;  but  you  may  see,  looking 
at  their  faces  between  the  vertical  gleams  of  their 
bayonets,  that  they  are  simply  men. 

Each  one  knows  that  he  is  going  to  take  his  head, 
his  chest,  his  belly,  his  whole  body,  and  all  naked,  up 
to  the  rifles  pointed  forward,  to  the  shells,  to  the  bombs 
piled  and  ready,  and  above  all  to  the  methodical  and 
almost  infallible  machine-guns — to  all  that  is  waiting 
for  him  yonder  and  is  now  so  frightfully  silent — before 

R 


242  UNDER  FIRE 

he  reaches  the  other  soldiers  that  he  must  kill.  They 
are  not  careless  of  their  lives,  like  brigands,  nor  blinded 
by  passion  like  savages.  In  spite  of  the  doctrines 
with  which  they  have  been  cultivated  jthey  are  not  in- 
flamed. They  are  above  instinctive  excesses.  They 
are  not  drunk,  either  physically  or  morally.  It  is  in 
full  consciousness,  as  in  full  health  and  fullf strength, 
that  they  are  massed  there  to  hurl  themselves  once  more 
into  that  sort  of  madman's  part  imposed  on  all  men  by 
the  madness  of  the  human  race.  One  sees  the  thought 
and  the  fear  and  the  farewell  that  there  is  in  their 
silence,  their  stillness,  in  the  mask  of  tranquillity  which 
unnaturally  grips  their  faces.  They  are  not  the  kind  of 
hero  one  thinks  of,  but  their  sacrifice  has  greater  worth 
than  they  who  have  not  seen  them  will  ever  be  able  to 
understand. 

They  are  waiting ;  a  waiting  that  extends  and  seems 
eternal.  Now  and  then,  one  or  another  starts  a  little 
when  a  bullet,  fired  from  the  other  side,  skims  the 
forward  embankment  that  shields  us  and  plunges  into 
the  flabby  flesh  of  the  rear  wall. 

The  end  of  the  day  is  spreading  a  sublime  but  melan- 
choly light  on  that  strong  unbroken  mass  of  beings  of 
whom  some  only  will  live  to  see  the  night.  It  is  raining 
— there  is  always  rain  in  my  memories  of  all  the  tragedies 
of  the  great  war.  The  evening  is  making  ready,  along 
with  a  vague  and  chilling  menace ;  it  is  about  to  set  for 
men  that  snare  that  is  as  wide  as  the  world. 

****** 

New  orders  are  peddled  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
Bombs  strung  on  wire  hoops  are  distributed — "  Let 
each  man  take  two  bombs  !  " 

The  major  goes  by.  He  is  restrained  in  his  gestures, 
in  undress,  girded,  undecorated.  We  hear  him  say, 
"  There's  something  good,  mes  enfants,  the  Bodies  are 
clearing  out.  You'll  get  along  all  right,  eh  ?  " 

News  passes  among  us  like  a  breeze.  "  The  Moroccans 
and  the  2ist  Company  are  in  front  of  us.  The  attack 
is  launched  on  our  right." 


UNDER   FIRE  243 

The  corporals  are  summoned  to  the  captain,  and  return 
with  armsful  of  steel  things.  Bertrand  is  fingering  me ; 
he  hooks  something  on  to  a  button  of  my  greatcoat. 
It  is  a  kitchen  knife.  "  I'm  putting  this  on  to  your 
coat,"  he  says. 

"  Me  too  !  "  says  Pepin. 

"No,"  says  Bertrand,  "  it's  forbidden  to  take  volun- 
teers for  these  things." 

"  Be  damned  to  you  !  "  growls  P6pin. 

We  wait,  in  the  great  rainy  and  shot-hammered  space 
that  has  no  other  boundary  than  the  distant  and  tre- 
mendous cannonade.  Bertrand  has  finished  his  dis- 
tribution and  returns.  Several  soldiers  have  sat  down, 
and  some  of  them  are  yawning. 

The  cyclist  Billette  slips  through  in  front  of  us, 
carrying  an  officer's  waterproof  on  his  arm  and  obviously 
averting  his  face.  "  Hullo,  aren't  you  going  too  ?  " 
Cocon  cries  to  him. 

"  No,  I'm  not  going,"  says  the  other.  "  I'm  in  the 
I7th.  The  Fifth  Battalion's  not  attacking  !  " 

"  Ah,  they've  always  got  the  luck,  the  Fifth.  They've 
never  got  to  fight  like  we  have  !  "  Billette  is  already  in 
the  distance,  and  a  few  grimaces  follow  his  disappearance. 

A  man  arrives  running,  and  speaks  to  Bertrand,  and 
then  Bertrand  turns  to  us 

"  Up  you  go,"  he  says,  "  it's  our  turn." 

All  move  at  once.     We  put  our  feet  on  the  steps  made 
\>y  the  sappers,  raise  ourselves,  elbow  to  elbow,  beyond 
the  shelter  of  the  trench,  and  climb  on  to  the  parapet. 
***** 

Bertrand  is  out  on  the  sloping  ground.  He  covers  us 
with  a  quick  glance,  and  when  we  are  all  there  he  says, 
"  Allans,  forward  !  " 

Our  voices  have  a  curious  resonance.  The  start  has 
been  made  very  quickly,  unexpectedly  almost,  as  in  a 
dream.  There  is  no  whistling  sound  in  the  air.  Among 
the  vast  uproar  of  the  guns  we  discern  very  clearly  this 
surprising  silence  of  bullets  around  us 

We  descend  over  the  rough  and  slippery  ground  with 


I 

244  UNDER  FIRE 

involuntary  gestures,  helping  ourselves  sometimes  with 
the  rifle.  Mechanically  the  eye  fastens  on  some  detail 
of  the  declivity,  of  the  ruined  ground,  on  the  sparse 
and  shattered  stakes  pricking  up,  at  the  wreckage  in 
the  holes.  It  is  unbelievable  that  we  are  upright  in 
full  daylight  on  this  slope  where  several  survivors  re- 
member sliding  along  in  the  darkness  with  such  care, 
and  where  the  others  have  only  hazarded  furtive  glances 
through  the  loopholes.  No,  there  is  no  firing  against  us. 
The  wide  exodus  of  the  battalion  out  of  the  ground  seems 
to  have  passed  unnoticed  !  This  truce  is  full  of  an 
increasing  menace,  increasing.  The  pale  light  con- 
fuses us. 

On  all  sides  the  slope  is  covered  by  men  who,  like  us, 
are  bent  on  the  descent.  On  the  right  the  outline  is 
defined  of  a  company  that  is  reaching  the  ravine  by 
Trench  97 — an  old  German  work  in  ruins.  We  cross 
our  wire  by  openings.  Still  no  one  fires  on  us.  Some 
awkward  ones  who  have  made  false  steps  are  getting 
up  again.  We  form  up  on  the  farther  side  of  the  en- 
tanglements and  then  set  ourselves  to  topple  down  the 
slope  rather  faster — there  is  an  instinctive  acceleration 
in  the  movement.  Several  bullets  arrive  at  last  among 
us.  Bertrand  shouts  to  us  to  reserve  our  bombs  and 
wait  till  the  last  moment. 

But  the  sound  of  his  voice  is  carried  away.  Abruptly, 
across  all  the  width  of  the  opposite  slope,  lurid  flames 
burst  forth  that  strike  the  air  with  terrible  detonations. 
In  line  from  left  to  right  fires  emerge  from  the  sky 
and  explosions  from  the  ground.  It  is  a  frightful 
curtain  which  divides  us  from  the  world,  which  divides 
us  from  the  past  and  from  the  future.  We  stop,  fixed 
to  the  ground,  stupefied  by  the  sudden  host  that  thunders 
from  every  side ;  then  a  simultaneous  effort  uplifts  our 
mass  again  and  throws  it  swiftly  forward.  We  stumble 
and  impede  each  other  in  the  great  waves  of  smoke. 
With  harsh  crashes  and  whirlwinds  of  pulverised  earth, 
towards  the  profundity  into  which  we  hurl  ourselves 
pell-mell,  we  see  craters  opened  here  and  there,  side  by 


UNDER   FIRE  245 

side,  and  merging  in  each  other.  Then  one  knows  no 
longer  where  the  discharges  fall.  Volleys  are  let  loose 
so  monstrously  resounding  that  one  feels  himself  anni- 
hilated by  the  mere  sound  of  the  downpoured  thunder 
of  these  great  constellations  of  destruction  that  form 
in  the  sky.  One  sees  and  one  feels  the  fragments  passing 
close  to  one's  head  with  their  hiss  of  red-hot  iron  plunged 
in  water.  The  blast  of  one  explosion  so  burns  my  hands 
that  I  let  my  rifle  fall.  I  pick  it  up  again,  reeling,  and 
set  off  in  the  tawny-gleaming  tempest  with  lowered 
head,  lashed  by  spirts  of  dust  and  soot  in  a  crushing 
downpour  like  volcanic  lava.  The  stridor  of  the  bursting 
shells  hurts  your  ears,  beats  you  on  the  neck,  goes 
through  your  temples,  and  you  cannot  endure  it  with- 
out a  cry.  The  gusts  of  death  drive  us  on,  lift  us  up, 
rock  us  to  and  fro.  We  leap,  and  do  not  know  whither 
we  go.  Our  eyes  are  blinking  and  weeping  and  ob- 
scured. The  view  before  us  is  blocked  by  a  flashing 
avalanche  that  fills  space. 

It  is  the  barrage  fire.  We  have  to  go  through  that 
whirlwind  of  fire  and  those  fearful  showers  that  vertically 
fall.  We  are  passing  through.  We  are  through  it, 
by  chance.  Here  and  there  I  have  seen  forms  that 
spun  round  and  were  lifted  up  and  laid  down,  illumined 
by  a  brief  reflection  from  over  yonder.  I  have  glimpsed 
strange  faces  that  uttered  some  sort  of  cry — you  could 
see  them  without  hearing  them  in  the  roar  of  annihila- 
tion. A  brasier  full  of  red  and  black  masses  huge  and 
furious  fell  about  me,  excavating  the  ground,  tearing 
it  from  under  my  feet,  throwing  me  aside  like  a  bouncing 
toy.  I  remember  that  I  strode  over  a  smouldering 
corpse,  quite  black,  with  a  tissue  of  rosy  blood  shrivelling 
on  him;  and  I  remember,  too,  that  the  skirts  of  the 
greatcoat  flying  next  to  me  had  caught  fire,  and  left 
a  trail  of  smoke  behind.  On  our  right,  all  along  Trench 
97,  our  glances  were  drawn  and  dazzled  by  a  rank  of 
frightful  flames,  closely  crowded  against  each  other 
like  men. 

Forward  1 


246  UNDER  FIRE 

Now,  we  are  nearly  running.  I  see  some  who  fall 
solidly  flat,  face  forward,  and  others  who  founder  meekly, 
as  though  they  would  sit  down  on  the  ground.  We  step 
aside  abruptly  to  avoid  the  prostrate  dead,  quiet  and 
rigid,  or  else  offensive,  and  also — more  perilous  snares  ! — 
the  wounded  that  hook  on  to  you,  struggling. 

The  International  Trench  !  We  are  there.  The  wire 
entanglements  have  been  torn  up  into  long  roots  and 
creepers,  thrown  afar  and  coiled  up,  swept  away  and 
piled  in  great  drifts  by  the  guns.  Between  these  big 
bushes  of  rain-damped  steel  the  ground  is  open  and  free. 

The  trench  is  not  defended.  The  Germans  have 
abandoned  it,  or  else  a  first  wave  has  already  passed 
over  it.  Its  interior  bristles  with  rifles  placed  against 
the  bank.  In  the  bottom  are  scattered  corpses.  From 
the  jumbled  litter  of  the  long  trench,  hands  emerge  that 
protrude  from  grey  sleeves  with  red  facings,  and  booted 
legs.  In  places  the  embankment  is  destroyed  and  its 
woodwork  splintered — all  the  flank  of  the  trench  col- 
lapsed and  fallen  into  an  indescribable  mixture.  In 
other  places,  round  pits  are  yawning.  And  of  all  that 
moment  I  have  best  retained  the  vision  of  a  whimsical 
trench  covered  with  many-coloured  rags  and  tatters. 
For  the  making  of  their  sandbags  the  Germans  had  used 
cotton  and  woollen  stuffs  of  motley  design  pillaged  from 
some  house-furnisher's  shop;  and  all  this  hotch-potch 
of  coloured  remnants,  mangled  and  frayed,  floats  and 
flaps  and  dances  in  our  faces. 

We  have  spread  out  in  the  trench.  The  lieutenant, 
who  has  jumped  to  the  other  side,  is  stooping  and 
summoning  us  with  signs  and  shouts — "  Don't  stay 
there ;  forward,  forward  !  " 

We  climb  the  wall  of  the  trench  with  the  help  of  the 
sacks,  of  weapons,  and  of  the  backs  that  are  piled  up 
there.  In  the  bottom  of  the  ravine  the  soil  is  shot- 
churned,  crowded  with  jetsam,  swarming  with  prostrate 
bodies.  Some  are  motionless  as  blocks  of  wood ;  others 
move  slowly  or  convulsively.  The  barrage  fire  con- 
tinues to  increase  its  infernal  discharge  behind  us  on 


UNDER  FIRE  247 

the  ground  that  we  have  crossed.  But  where  we  are 
at  the  foot  of  the  rise  it  is  a  dead  point  for  the  artillery. 

A  short  and  uncertain  calm  follows.  We  are  less 
deafened  and  look  at  each  other.  There  is  fever  in  the 
eyes,  and  the  cheek-bones  are  blood-red.  Our  breathing 
snores  and  our  hearts  drum  in  our  bodies. 

In  haste  and  confusion  we  recognise  each  other,  as 
if  we  had  met  again  face  to  face  in  a  nightmare  on  the 
uttermost  shores  of  death.  Some  hurried  words  are 
cast  upon  this  glade  in  hell :— "  It's  you  !  "— "  Where's 
Cocon?" — "  Don't  know." — "Have  you  seen  the 
captain  ?  "— "  No."—"  Going  strong?  "— "  Yes." 

The  bottom  of  the  ravine  is  crossed  and  the  other  slope 
rises  opposite.  We  climb  in  Indian  file  by  a  stairway 
rough-hewn  in  the  ground  :  "  Look  out  !  "  The  shout 
means  that  a  soldier  half-way  up  the  steps  has  been 
struck  in  the  loins  by  a  shell-fragment;  he  falls  with 
his  arms  forward,  bareheaded,  like  the  diving  swimmer. 
We  can  see  the  shapeless  silhouette  of  the  mass  as  it 
plunges  into  the  gulf.  I  can  almost  see  the  detail  of 
his  blown  hair  over  the  black  profile  of  his  face. 

We  debouch  upon  the  height.  A  great  colourless 
emptiness  is  outspread  before  us.  At  first  one  can  see 
nothing  but  a  chalky  and  stony  plain,  yellow  and  grey 
to  the  limit  of  sight.  No  human  wave  is  preceding  ours ; 
in  front  of  us  there  is  no  living  soul,  but  the  ground  is 
peopled  with  dead — recent  corpses  that  still  mimic 
agony  or  sleep,  and  old  remains  already  bleached  and 
scattered  to  the  wind,  half  assimilated  by  the  earth. 

As  soon  as  our  pushing  and  jolted  file  emerges,  two 
men  close  to  me  are  hit,  two  shadows  are  hurled  to  the 
ground  and  roll  under  our  feet,  one  with  a  sharp  cry, 
and  the  other  silently,  as  a  felled  ox.  Another  dis- 
appears with  the  caper  of  a  lunatic,  as  if  he  had  been 
snatched  away.  Instinctively  we  close  up  as  we  hustle 
forward — always  forward — and  the  wound  in  our  line 
closes  of  its  own  accord.  The  adjutant  stops,  raises 
his  sword,  lets  it  fall,  and  drops  to  his  knees.  His 
kneeling  body  slopes  backward  in  jerks,  his  helmet 


248  UNDER  FIRE 

drops  on  his  heels,  and  he  remains  there,  bareheaded, 
face  to  the  sky.  Hurriedly  the  rush  of  the  rank  has 
split  open  to  respect  his  immobility. 

But  we  cannot  see  the  lieutenant.     No  more  leaders, 

then Hesitation  checks  the  wave  of  humanity  that 

begins  to  beat  on  the  plateau.  Above  the  trampling 
one  hears  the  hoarse  effort  of  our  lungs.  "  Forward  !  " 
cries  some  soldier,  and  then  all  resume  the  onward  race 
to  perdition  with  increasing  speed. 

#  #  *  *  *  * 

"  Where's  Bertrand?  "  comes  the  laborious  complaint 
of  one  of  the  foremost  runners.  "  There  !  Here  !  " 
He  had  stooped  in  passing  over  a  wounded  man,  but  he 
leaves  him  quickly,  and  the  man  extends  his  arms 
towards  him  and  seems  to  sob. 

It  is  just  at  the  moment  when  he  rejoins  us  that  we 
hear  in  front  of  us,  coming  from  a  sort  of  ground  swelling, 
the  crackle  of  a  machine-gun.  It  is  a  moment  of  agony 
— more  serious  even  than  when  we  were  passing  through 
the  flaming  earthquake  of  the  barrage.  That  familiar 
voice  speaks  to  us  across  the  plain,  sharp  and  horrible. 
But  we  no  longer  stop.  "  Go  on,  go  on  !  " 

Our  panting  becomes  hoarse  groaning,  yet  still  we 
hurl  ourselves  toward  the  horizon. 

"  The  Boches  !     I  see  them  !  "  a  man  says  suddenly. 

"  Yes — their  heads,  there — above  the  trench — it's 
there,  the  trench,  that  line.  It's  close.  Ah,  the  hogs  !  " 

We  can  indeed  make  out  little  round  grey  caps  which 
rise  and  then  drop  on  the  ground  level,  fifty  yards  away, 
beyond  a  belt  of  dark  earth,  furrowed  and  humped. 
Encouraged  they  spring  forward,  they  who  now  form  the 
group  where  I  am.  So  near  the  goal,  so  far  unscathed, 
shall  we  not  reach  it  ?  Yes,  we  will  reach  it  !  We  make 
great  strides  and  no  longer  hear  anything.  Each  man 
plunges  straight  ahead,  fascinated  by  the  terrible  trench, 
bent  rigidly  forward,  almost  incapable  of  turning  his 
head  to  right  or  to  left.  I  have  a  notion  that  many  of 
us  missed  their  footing  and  fell  to  the  ground.  I  jump 
sideways  to  miss  the  suddenly  erect  bayonet  of  a  toppling 


UNDER  FIRE  249 

rifle.  Quite  close  to  me,  Farfadet  jostles  me  with  his 
face  bleeding,  throws  himself  on  Volpatte  who  is  beside 
me  and  clings  to  him.  Volpatte  doubles  up  without 
slackening  his  rush  and  drags  him  along  some  paces, 
then  shakes  him  off  without  looking  at  him  and  without 
knowing  who  he  is,  and  shouts  at  him  in  a  breaking  voice 
almost  choked  with  exertion  :  "  Let  me  go,  let  me  go,  nom 
de  Dieu  I  They'll  pick  you  up  directly— don't  worry." 

The  other  man  sinks  to  the  ground,  and  his  face, 
plastered  with  a  scarlet  mask  and  void  of  all  expression, 
turns  in  every  direction ;  while  Volpatte,  already  in  the 
distance,  automatically  repeats  between  his  teeth, 
"  Don't  worry,"  with  a  steady  forward  gaze  on  the  line. 

A  shower  of  bullets  spirts  around  me,  increasing 
the  number  of  those  who  suddenly  halt,  who  collapse 
slowly,  defiant  and  gesticulating,  of  those  who  dive 
forward  solidly  with  all  the  body's  burden,  of  the 
shouts,  deep,  furious,  and  desperate,  and  even  of  that 
hollow  and  terrible  gasp  when  a  man's  life  goes  bodily 
forth  in  a  breath.  And  we  who  are  not  yet  stricken, 
we  look  ahead,  we  walk  and  we  run,  among  the  frolics 
of  the  death  that  strikes  at  random  into  our  flesh. 

The  wire  entanglements — and  there  is  one  stretch  of 
them  intact.  We  go  along  to  where  it  has  been  gutted 
into  a  wide  and  deep  opening.  This  is  a  colossal  funnel- 
hole,  formed  of  smaller  funnels  placed  together,  a 
fantastic  volcanic  crater,  scooped  there  by  the  guns. 

The  sight  of  this  convulsion  is  stupefying;  truly 
it  seems  that  it  must  have  come  from  the  centre  of  the 
earth.  Such  a  rending  of  virgin  strata  puts  new  edge 
on  our  attacking  fury,  and  none  of  us  can  keep  from 
shouting  with  a  solemn  shake  of  the  head — even  just 
now  when  words  are  but  painfully  torn  from  our  throats — 
"  Ah,  Christ !  Look  what  hell  we've  given  'em  there  ! 
Ah,  look  !  " 

Driven  as  if  by  the  wind,  we  mount  or  descend  at 
the  will  of  the  hollows  and  the  earthy  mounds  in  the 
gigantic  fissure  dug  and  blackened  and  burned  by  furious 
flames.  The  soil  clings  to  the  feet  and  we  tear  them 


250  UNDER  FIRE 

out  angrily.  The  accoutrements  and  stuffs  that  cover 
the  soft  soil,  the  linen  that  is  scattered  about  from 
sundered  knapsacks,  prevent  us  from  sticking  fast  in 
it,  and  we  are  careful  to  plant  our  feet  in  this  debris 
when  we  jump  into  the  holes  or  climb  the  hillocks. 

Behind  us  voices  urge  us — "  Forward,  boys,  forward, 
nom  de  Dieu  !  " 

"  All  the  regiment  is  behind  us  !  "  they  cry.  We  do 
not  turn  round  to  see,  but  the  assurance  electrifies  our 
rush  once  more. 

No  more  caps  are  visible  behind  the  embankment  of 
the  trench  we  are  nearing.  Some  German  dead  are 
crumbling  in  front  of  it,  in  pinnacled  heaps  or  extended 
lines.  We  are  there.  The  parapet  takes  definite  and 
sinister  shape  and  detail;  the  loopholes — we  are  pro- 
digiously, incredibly  close  ! 

Something  falls  in  front  of  us.  It  is  a  bomb.  With 
a  kick  Corporal  Bertrand  returns  it  so  well  that  it  rises 
and  bursts  just  over  the  trench. 

With  that  fortunate  deed  the  squad  reaches  the  trench. 

Pepin  has  hurled  himself  flat  on  the  ground  and  is 
involved  with  a  corpse.  He  reaches  the  edge  and 
plunges  in — the  first  to  enter.  Fouillade,  with  great 
gestures  and  shouts,  jumps  into  the  pit  almost  at  the 
same  moment  that  Pepin  rolls  down  it.  Indistinctly 
I  see — in  the  time  of  the  lightning's  flash — a  whole  row 
of  black  demons  stooping  and  squatting  for  the  descent, 
on  the  ridge  of  the  embankment,  on  the  edge  of  the  dark 
ambush. 

A  terrible  volley  bursts  point-blank  in  our  faces, 
flinging  in  front  of  us  a  sudden  row  of  flames  the  whole 
length  of  the  earthen  verge.  After  the  stunning  shock 
we  shake  ourselves  and  burst  into  devilish  laughter — 
the  discharge  has  passed  too  high.  And  at  once,  with 
shouts  and  roars  of  salvation,  we  slide  and  roll  and  fall 
alive  into  the  belly  of  the  trench  ! 

****** 

We  are  submerged  in  a  mysterious  smoke,  and  at 
first  I  can  only  see  blue  uniforms  in  the  stifling  gulf. 


UNDER  FIRE  251 

We  go  one  way  and  then  another,  driven  by  each  other, 
snarling  and  searching.  We  turn  about,  and  with  our 
hands  encumbered  by  knife,  bombs,  and  rifle,  ws  do 
not  know  at  first  what  to  do. 

"  They're  in  their  funk-holes,  the  swine  !  "  is  the  cry. 
Heavy  explosions  are  shaking  the  earth — underground, 
in  the  dug-outs.  We  are  all  at  once  divided  by  huge 
clouds  of  smoke  so  thick  that  we  are  masked  and  can 
see  nothing  more.  We  struggle  like  drowning  men 
through  the  acrid  darkness  of  a  fallen  fragment  of  night. 
One  stumbles  against  barriers  of  cowering  clustered 
beings  who  bleed  and  howl  in  the  bottom.  Hardly 
can  one  make  out  the  trench  walls,  straight  up  just 
here  and  made  of  white  sandbags,  which  are  everywhere 
torn  like  paper.  At  one  time  the  heavy  adhesive  reek 
sways  and  lifts,  and  one  sees  again  the  swarming  mob 
of  the  attackers.  Torn  out  of  the  dusty  picture,  the 
silhouette  of  a  hand-to-hand  struggle  is  drawn  in  fog 
on  the  wall,  it  droops  and  sinks  to  the  bottom.  I  hear 
several  shrill  cries  of  "  Kamarad  !  "  proceeding  from  a 
pale-faced  and  grey-clad  group  in  the  huge  corner  made 
by  a  rending  shell.  Under  the  inky  cloud  the  tempest 
of  men  flows  back,  climbs  towards  the  right,  eddying, 
pitching  and  falling,  along  the  dark  and  ruined  mole. 
****** 

And  suddenly  one  feels  that  it  is  over.  We  see  and 
hear  and  understand  that  our  wave,  rolling  here  through 
the  barrage  fire,  has  not  encountered  an  equal  breaker. 
They  have  fallen  back  on  our  approach.  The  battle 
has  dissolved  in  front  of  us.  The  slender  curtain  of 
defenders  has  crumbled  into  the  holes,  where  they  are 
caught  like  rats  or  killed.  There  is  no  more  resistance, 
but  a  void,  a  great  void.  We  advance  in  crowds  like 
a  terrible  array  of  spectators. 

And  here  the  trench  seems  all  lightning-struck.  With 
its  tumbled  white  walls  it  might  be  just  here  the  soft 
and  slimy  bed  of  a  vanished  river  that  has  left  stony 
bluffs,  with  here  and  there  the  flat  round  hole  of  a  pool, 
also  dried  up;  and  on  the  edges,  on  the  sloping  banks 


252  UNDER  FIRE 

and  in  the  bottom,  there  is  a  long  trailing  glacier  of 
corpses — a  dead  river  that  is  filled  again  to  overflowing 
by  the  new  tide  and  the  breaking  wave  of  our  company. 
In  the  smoke  vomited  by  dug-outs  and  the  shaking  wind 
of  subterranean  explosions,  I  come  upon  a  compact 
mass  of  men  hooked  on  to  each  other  who  are  describing 
a  wide  circle.  Just  as  we  reach  them  the  entire  mass 
breaks  up  to  make  a  residue  of  furious  battle.  I  see 
Blaire  break  away,  his  helmet  hanging  on  his  neck 
by  the  chin-strap  and  his  face  flayed,  and  uttering  a 
savage  yell.  I  stumble  upon  a  man  who  is  crouching 
at  the  entry  to  a  dug-out.  Drawing  back  from  the 
black  hatchway,  yawning  and  treacherous,  he  steadies 
himself  with  his  left  hand  on  a  beam.  In  his  right  hand 
and  for  several  seconds  he  holds  a  bomb  which  is  on  the 
point  of  exploding.  It  disappears  in  the  hole,  bursts 
immediately,  and  a  horrible  human  echo  answers  him 
from  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  The  man  seizes  another 
bomb. 

Another  man  strikes  and  shatters  the  posts  at  the 
mouth  of  another  dug-out  with  a  pickaxe  he  has  found 
there,  causing  a  landslide,  and  the  entry  is  blocked.  I 
see  several  shadows  trampling  and  gesticulating  over 
the  tomb. 

Of  the  living  ragged  band  that  has  got  so  far  and  has 
reached  this  long-sought  trench  after  dashing  against 
the  storm  of  invincible  shells  and  bullets  launched  to 
meet  them,  I  can  hardly  recognise  those  whom  I  know, 
just  as  though  all  that  had  gone  before  of  our  lives  had 
suddenly  become  very  distant.  There  is  some  change 
working  in  them.  A  frenzied  excitement  is  driving  them 
all  out  of  themselves. 

"  What  are  we  stopping  here  for?  "  says  one,  grinding 
his  teeth. 

"  Why  don't  we  go  on  to  the  next  ?  "  a  second  asks  me 
in  fury.  "  Now  we're  here,  we'd  be  there  in  a  few 
jumps  !  " 

"  I,  too,  I  want  to  go  on." — "  Me,  too.  Ah,  the 
hogs !  " 


UNDER   FIRE  253 

They  shake  themselves  like  banners.  They  carry 
the  luck  of  their  survival  as  it  were  glory;  they  are 
implacable,  uncontrolled,  intoxicated  with  themselves. 

We  wait  and  stamp  about  in  the  captured  work,  this 
strange  demolished  way  that  winds  along  the  plain  and 
goes  from  the  unknown  to  the  unknown. 

Advance  to  the  right ! 

We  begin  to  flow  again  in  one  direction.  No  doubt 
it  is  a  movement  planned  up  there,  back  yonder,  by  the 
chiefs.  We  trample  soft  bodies  underfoot,  some  of 
which  are  moving  and  slowly  altering  their  position; 
rivulets  and  cries  come  from  them.  Like  posts  and 
heaps  of  rubbish,  corpses  are  piled  anyhow  on  the 
wounded,  and  press  them  down,  suffocate  them,  strangle 
them.  So  that  I  can  get  by,  I  must  push  at  a  slaughtered 
trunk  of  which  the  neck  is  a  spring  of  gurgling  blood. 

In  the  cataclysm  of  earth  and  of  massive  wreckage 
blown  up  and  blown  out,  above  the  hordes  of  wounded 
and  dead  that  stir  together,  athwart  the  moving  forest 
of  smoke  implanted  in  the  trench  and  in  all  its  environs, 
one  no  longer  sees  any  face  but  what  is  inflamed,  blood- 
red  with  sweat,  eyes  flashing.  Some  groups  seem  to  be 
dancing  as  they  brandish  their  knives.  They  are  elated, 
immensely  confident,  ferocious. 

The  battle  dies  down  imperceptibly.  A  soldier  says, 
"  Well,  what's  to  be  done  now?  "  It  flares  up  again 
suddenly  at  one  point.  Twenty  yards  away  in  the 
plain,  in  the  direction  of  a  circle  that  the  grey  embank- 
ment makes,  a  cluster  of  rifle-shots  crackles  and  hurls 
its  scattered  missiles  around  a  hidden  machine-gun, 
that  spits  intermittently  and  seems  to  be  in  difficulties. 

Under  the  shadowy  wing  of  a  sort  of  yellow  and 
bluish  nimbus  I  see  men  encircling  the  flashing  machine 
and  closing  in  on  it.  Near  to  me  I  make  out  the  sil- 
houette of  Mesnil  Joseph,  who  is  steering  straight  and 
with  no  effort  of  concealment  for  the  spot  whence  the 
barking  explosions  come  in  jerky  sequence. 

A  flash  shoots  out  from  a  corner  of  the  trench  between 
us  two.  Joseph  halts,  sways,  stoops,  and  drops  on  one 


254  UNDER  FIRE 

knee.  I  run  to  him  and  he  watches  me  coming.  "  It's 
nothing — my  thigh.  I  can  crawl  along  by  myself." 
He  seems  to  have  become  quiet,  childish,  docile;  and 
sways  slowly  towards  the  trench. 

I  have  still  in  my  eyes  the  exact  spot  whence  rang 
the  shot  that  hit  him,  and  I  slip  round  there  by  the  left, 
making  a  detour.  No  one  there.  I  only  meet  another 
of  our  squad  on  the  same  errand — Paradis. 

We  are  bustled  by  men  who  are  carrying  on  their 
shoulders  pieces  of  iron  of  all  shapes.  They  block  up 
the  trench  and  separate  us.  "  The  machine-gun's 
taken  by  the  7th,"  they  shout,  "it  won't  bark  any 
more.  It  was  a  mad  devil — filthy  beast !  Filthy  beast !  " 

"  What's  there  to  do  now?  " — "  Nothing." 

We  stay  there,  jumbled  together,  and  sit  down.  The 
living  have  ceased  to  gasp  for  breath,  the  dying  have 
rattled  their  last,  surrounded  by  smoke  and  lights  and 
the  din  of  the  guns  that  rolls  to  all  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  We  no  longer  know  where  we  are.  There  is 
neither  earth  nor  sky — nothing  but  a  sort  of  cloud. 
The  first  period  of  inaction  is  forming  in  the  chaotic 
drama,  and  there  is  a  general  slackening  in  the  move- 
ment and  the  uproar.  The  cannonade  grows  less;  it 
still  shakes  the  sky  as  a  cough  shakes  a  man,  but  it  is 
farther  off  now.  Enthusiasm  is  allayed,  and  there 
remains  only  the  infinite  fatigue  that  rises  and  over- 
whelms us,  and  the  infinite  waiting  that  begins  over 

again. 

****** 

Where  is  the  enemy?  He  has  left  his  dead  every- 
where, and  we  have  seen  rows  of  prisoners.  Yonder 
again  there  is  one,  drab,  ill-defined  and  smoky,  outlined 
against  the  dirty  sky.  But  the  bulk  seem  to  have 
dispersed  afar.  A  few  shells  come  to  us  here  and  there, 
blunderingly,  and  we  ridicule  them.  We  are  saved,  we 
are  quiet,  we  are  alone,  in  this  desert  where  an  immensity 
of  corpses  adjoins  a  line  of  the  living. 

Night  has  come.  The  dust  has  flown  away,  but  has 
yielded  place  to  shadow  and  darkness  over  the  long- 


UNDER  FIRE  255 

drawn  multitude's  disorder.  Men  approach  each  other, 
sit  down,  get  up  again  and  walk  about,  leaning  on 
each  other  or  hooked  together.  Between  the  dug-outs, 
which  are  blocked  by  the  mingled  dead,  we  gather  in 
groups  and  squat.  Some  have  laid  their  rifles  on  the 
ground  and  wander  on  the  rim  of  the  trench  with  their 
arms  balancing;  and  when  they  come  near  we  can  see 
that  they  are  blackened  and  scorched,  their  eyes  are  red 
and  slashed  with  mud.  We  speak  seldom,  but  are 
beginning  to  think. 

We  see  the  stretcher-bearers,  whose  sharp  silhouettes 
stoop  and  grope;  they  advance  linked  two  and  two 
together  by  their  long  burdens.  Yonder  on  our  right 
one  hears  the  blows  of  pick  and  shovel. 

I  wander  into  the  middle  of  this  gloomy  turmoil. 
In  a  place  where  the  bombardment  has  crushed  the 
embankment  of  the  trench  into  a  gentle  slope,  some  one 
is  seated.  A  faint  light  still  prevails.  The  tranquil 
attitude  of  this  man  as  he  looks  reflectively  in  front  of 
him  is  sculptural  and  striking.  Stooping,  I  recognise 
him  as  Corporal  Bertrand.  He  turns  his  face  towards 
me,  and  I  feel  that  he  is  looking  at  me  through  the 
shadows  with  his  thoughtful  smile. 

"  I  was  coming  to  look  for  you,"  he  says;  "  they're 
organising  a  guard  for  the  trench  until  we've  got  news 
of  what  the  others  have  done  and  what's  going  on  in 
front.  I'm  going  to  put  you  on  double  sentry  with 
Paradis,  in  a  listening-post  that  the  sappers  have  just 
dug." 

We  watch  the  shadows  of  the  passers-by  and  of  those 
who  are  seated,  outlined  in  inky  blots,  bowed  and  bent 
in  diverse  attitudes  under  the  grey  sky,  all  along  the 
ruined  parapet.  Dwarfed  to  the  size  of  insects  and 
worms,  they  make  a  strange  and  secret  stirring  among 
these  shadow-hidden  lands  where  for  two  years  war  has 
caused  cities  of  soldiers  to  wander  or  stagnate  over  deep 
and  boundless  cemeteries. 

Two  obscure  forms  pass  in  the  dark,  several  paces 
from  us ;  they  are  talking  together  in  low  voices — 


256  UNDER  FIRE 

"  You  bet,  old  chap,  instead  of  listening  to  him,  I 
shoved  my  bayonet  into  his  belly  so  that  I  couldn't 
haul  it  out." 

"  There  were  four  in  the  bottom  of  the  hole.  I  called 
to  'em  to  come  out,  and  as  soon  as  one  came  out  I  stuck 
him.  Blood  ran  down  me  up  to  the  elbow  and  stuck 
up  my  sleeves." 

"  Ah  !  "  the  first  speaker  went  on,  "  when  we  are 
telling  all  about  it  later,  if  we  get  back,  to  the  other 
people  at  home,  by  the  stove  and  the  candle,  who's  going 
to  believe  it  ?  It's  a  pity,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  a  damn  about  that,  as  long  as  we  do 
get  back,"  said  the  other;  "  I  want  the  end  quickly, 
and  only  that." 

Bertrand  was  used  to  speak  very  little  ordinarily, 
and  never  of  himself.  But  he  said,  "  I've  got  three 
of  them  on  my  hands.  I  struck  like  a  madman.  Ah, 
we  were  all  like  beasts  when  we  got  here  !  " 

He  raised  his  voice  and  there  was  a  restrained  tremor 
in  it  :  "It  was  necessary,"  he  said,  "  it  was  necessary, 
for  the  future's  sake." 

He  crossed  his  arms  and  tossed  his  head  :  "  The 
future  !  "  he  cried  all  at  once  as  a  prophet  might.  "  How 
will  they  regard  this  slaughter,  they  who'll  live  after  us, 
to  whom  progress — which  comes  as  sure  as  fate — will 
at  last  restore  the  poise  of  their  conscience  ?  How  will 
they  regard  these  exploits  which  even  we  who  perform 
them  don't  know  whether  one  should  compare  them 
with  those  of  Plutarch's  and  Corneille's  heroes  or  with 
those  of  hooligans  and  apaches  ? 

"  And  for  all  that,  mind  you,"  Bertrand  went  on, 
"  there  is  one  figure  that  has  risen  above  the  war 
and  will  blaze  with  the  beauty  and  strength  of  his 
courage " 

I  listened,  leaning  on  a  stick  and  towards  him,  drinking 
in  the  voice  that  came  in  the  twilight  silence  from  the 
lips  that  so  rarely  spoke.  He  cried  with  a  clear  voice — 
"  Liebknecht !  " 

He  stood  up  with  his  arms  still  crossed.     His  face 


UNDER  FIRE  257 

as  profoundly  serious  as  a  statue's,  drooped  upon  his 
chest.  But  he  emerged  once  again  from  his  marble 
muteness  to  repeat,  "  The  future,  the  future  !  The 
work  of  the  future  will  be  to  wipe  out  the  present,  to 
wipe  it  out  more  than  we  can  imagine,  to  wipe  it  out 
like  something  abominable  and  shameful.  And  yet — 
this  present — it  had  to  be,  it  had  to  be  !  Shame  on 
military  glory,  shame  on  armies,  shame  on  the  soldier's 
calling,  that  changes  men  by  turns  into  stupid  victims 
or  ignoble  brutes.  Yes,  shame.  That's  the  true  word, 
but  it's  too  true ;  it's  true  in  eternity,  but  it's  not  yet 
true  for  us.  It  will  be  true  when  there  is  a  Bible  that 
is  entirely  true,  when  it  is  found  written  among  the 
other  truths  that  a  purified  mind  will  at  the  same  time 
let  us  understand.  We  are  still  lost,  still  exiled  far 
from  that  time.  In  our  time  of  to-day,  in  these  moments, 
this  truth  is  hardly  more  than  a  fallacy,  this  sacred  saying 
is  only  blasphemy  !  " 

A  land  of  laugh  came  from  him,  full  of  echoing 
dreams — "  To  think  I  once  told  them  I  believed  in 
prophecies,  just  to  kid  them  !  " 

I  sat  down  by  Bertrand's  side.  This  soldier  who 
had  always  done  more  than  was  required  of  him  and 
survived  notwithstanding,  stood  at  that  moment  in 
my  eyes  for  those  who  incarnate  a  lofty  moral  concep- 
tion, who  have  the  strength  to  detach  themselves  from 
the  hustle  of  circumstances,  and  who  are  destined, 
however  little  their  path  may  run  through  a  splendour 
of  events,  to  dominate  their  time. 

"  I  have  always  thought  all  those  things,"  I  mur- 
mured. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Bertrand.  We  looked  at  each  other 
without  a  word,  with  a  little  surprised  self-communion. 
After  this  full  silence  he  spoke  again.  "  It's  time  to 
start  duty;  take  your  rifle  and  come." 

****** 

From  our  listening-post  we  see  towards  the  east  a  light 
spreading   like  a  conflagration,  but  bluer  and  sadder 
than  buildings  on  fire.     It  streaks  the  sky  above  a  long 
s 


258  UNDER  FIRE 

black  cloud  which  extends  suspended  like  the  smoke  of 
an  extinguished  fire,  like  an  immense  stain  on  the  world. 
It  is  the  returning  morning. 

It  is  so  cold  that  we  cannot  stand  still  in  spite  of 
our  fettering  fatigue.  We  tremble  and  shiver  and  shed 
tears,  and  our  teeth  chatter.  Little  by  little,  with 
dispiriting  tardiness,  day  escapes  from  the  sky  into  the 
slender  framework  of  the  black  clouds.  All  is  frozen, 
colourless  and  empty;  a  deathly  silence  reigns  every- 
where. There  is  rime  and  snow  under  a  burden  of  mist. 
Everything  is  white.  Paradis  moves — a  heavy  pallid 
ghost,  for  we  two  also  are  all  white.  I  had  placed  my 
shoulder-bag  on  the  other  side  of  the  parapet,  and  it 
looks  as  if  wrapped  in  paper.  In  the  bottom  of  the  hole 
a  little  snow  floats,  fretted  and  grey  in  the  black  foot- 
bath. Outside  the  hole,  on  the  piled-up  things,  in  the 
excavations,  upon  the  crowded  dead,  snow  rests  like 
muslin. 

Two  stooping  protuberant  masses  are  crayoned  on 
the  mist ;  they  grow  darker  as  they  approach  and  hail 
us.  They  are  the  men  who  come  to  relieve  us.  Their 
faces  are  ruddy  and  tearful  with  cold,  their  cheek-bones 
like  enamelled  tiles ;  but  their  greatcoats  are  not  snow- 
powdered,  for  they  have  slept  underground. 

Paradis  hoists  himself  out.  Over  the  plain  I  follow 
his  Father  Christmas  back  and  the  duck-like  waddle  of 
the  boots  that  pick  up  white-felted  soles.  Bending 
deeply  forward  we  regain  the  trench;  the  footsteps  of 
those  who  replaced  us  are  marked  in  black  on  the  scanty 
whiteness  that  covers  the  ground. 

Watchers  are  standing  at  intervals  in  the  trench, 
over  which  tarpaulins  are  stretched  on  posts  here  and 
there,  figured  in  white  velvet  or  mottled  with  rime, 
and  forming  great  irregular  tents;  and  between  the 
watchers  are  squatting  forms  who  grumble  and  try  to 
fight  against  the  cold,  to  exclude  it  from  the  meagre 
fireside  of  their  own  chests,  or  who  are  simply  frozen. 
A  dead  man  has  slid  down,  upright  and  hardly  askew, 
with  his  feet  in  the  trench  and  his  chest  and  arms 


UNDER  FIRE  259 

resting  on  the  bank.  He  was  clasping  the  earth  when 
life  left  him.  His  face  is  turned  skyward  and  is  covered 
with  a  leprosy  of  ice,  the  eyelids  are  white  as  the  eyes, 
the  moustache  caked  with  hard  slime.  Other  bodies 
are  sleeping,  less  white  than  that  one ;  the  snowy  stratum 
is  only  intact  on  lifeless  things. 

"  We  must  sleep."  Paradis  and  I  are  looking  for 
shelter,  a  hole  where  we  may  hide  ourselves  and  shut 
our  eyes.  "  It  can't  be  helped  if  there  are  stiffs  in  the 
dug-outs,"  mutters  Paradis;  "  in  a  cold  like  this  they'll 
keep,  they  won't  be  too  bad."  We  go  forward,  so 
weary  that  we  can  only  see  the  ground. 

I  am  alone.  Where  is  Paradis?  He  must  have  lain 
down  in  some  hole,  and  perhaps  I  did  not  hear  his  call. 
I  meet  Marthereau.  "  I'm  looking  where  I  can  sleep, 
I've  been  on  guard,"  he  says. 

"  I,  too ;  let's  look  together." 

"  What's  all  the  row  and  to-do?  "  says  Marthereau. 
A  mingled  hubbub  of  trampling  and  voices  overflows 
from  the  communication  trench  that  goes  off  here. 
"  The  communication  trenches  are  full  of  men.  Who  are 
you  ?  " 

One  of  those  with  whom  we  are  suddenly  mixed  up 
replies,  "  We're  the  Fifth  Battalion."  The  newcomers 
stop.  They  are  in  marching  order.  The  one  that 
spoke  sits  down  for  a  breathing  space  on  the  curves  of 
a  sandbag  that  protrudes  from  the  line.  He  wipes  his 
nose  with  the  back  of  his  sleeve. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  Have  they  told  you  to 
come  ?  " 

"  Not  half  they  haven't  told  us.  We're  coming  to 
attack.  We're  going  yonder,  right  up."  With  his 
head  he  indicates  the  north.  The  curiosity  with  which 
we  look  at  them  fastens  on  to  a  detail.  "  You've 
carried  everything  with  you?  " — "  We  chose  to  keep  it, 
that's  all." 

"  Forward ! "  they  are  ordered.  They  rise  and 
proceed,  incompletely  awake,  their  eyes  puffy,  their 
wrinkles  underlined.  There  are  young  men  among 


260  UNDER  FIRE 

them  with  thin  necks  and  vacuous  eyes,  and  old  men; 
and  in  the  middle,  ordinary  ones.  They  march  with 
a  commonplace  and  pacific  step.  What  they  are  going 
to  do  seems  to  us,  who  did  it  last  night,  beyond  human 
strength.  But  still  they  go  away  towards  the  north. 

"  The  revally  of  the  damned,"  says  Marthereau. 

We  make  way  for  them  with  a  sort  of  admiration  and 
a  sort  of  terror.  When  they  have  passed,  Marthereau 
wags  his  head  and  murmurs,  "  There  are  some  getting 
ready,  too,  on  the  other  side,  with  their  grey  uniforms. 
Do  you  think  those  chaps  are  feeling  it  about  the  attack  ? 
Then  why  have  they  come?  It's  not  their  doing,  I 
know,  but  it's  theirs  all  the  same,  seeing  they're  here.— 
I  know,  I  know,  but  it's  odd,  all  of  it." 

The  sight  of  a  passer-by  alters  the  course  of  his  ideas  : 
"  Tiens,  there's  True,  the  big  one,  d'you  know  him? 
Isn't  he  immense  and  pointed,  that  chap  !  As  for  me, 
I  know  I'm  not  quite  hardly  big  enough;  but  him,  he 
goes  too  far.  He  always  knows  what's  going  on,  that 
two-yarder  !  For  savvying  everything,  there's  nobody 
going  to  give  him  the  go-by  !  I'll  go  and  chivvy  him 
about  a  funk-hole." 

"If  there's  a  rabbit-hole  anywhere?"  replies  the 
elongated  passer-by,  leaning  on  Marthereau  like  a  poplar 
tree,  "  for  sure,  my  old  Caparlhe,  certainly.  Tiens, 
there  " — and  unbending  his  elbow  he  makes  an  indicative 
gesture  like  a  flag-signaller — "  '  Villa  von  Hindenburg/ 
and  there,  '  Villa  Gliicks  auf.'  If  that  doesn't  satisfy 
you,  you  gentlemen  are  hard  to  please.  P'raps  there's 
a  few  lodgers  in  the  basement,  but  not  noisy  lodgers, 
and  you  can  talk  out  aloud  in  front  of  them,  you  know  !  " 

"  Ah,  nom  de  Dieu  ! "  cried  Marthereau  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  after  we  had  established  ourselves  in  one  of 
these  square-cut  graves,  "  there's  lodgers  he  didn't 
tell  us  about,  that  frightful  great  lightning-rod,  that 
infinity  !  "  His  eyelids  were  just  closing,  but  they 
opened  again  and  he  scratched  his  arms  and  thighs  : 
"  I  want  a  snooze  !  It  appears  it's  out  of  the  question. 
Can't  resist  these  things." 


UNDER  FIRE  261 

We  settled  ourselves  to  yawning  and  sighing,  and 
finally  we  lighted  a  stump  of  candle,  wet  enough  to 
resist  us  although  covered  with  our  hands;  and  we 
watched  each  other  yawn. 

The  German  dug-out  consisted  of  several  rooms. 
We  were  against  a  partition  of  ill-fitting  planks;  and 
on  the  other  side,  in  Cave  No.  2,  some  men  were  also 
awake.  WTe  saw  light  trickle  through  the  crannies 
between  the  planks  and  heard  rumbling  voices.  "  It's 
the  other  section,"  said  Marthereau. 

Then  we  listened,  mechanically.  "  When  I  was  off 
on  leave,"  boomed  an  invisible  talker,  "  we  had  the 
hump  at  first,  because  we  were  thinking  of  my  poor 
brother  who  was  missing  in  March — dead,  no  doubt — 
and  of  my  poor  little  Julien,  of  Class  1915,  killed  in  the 
October  attacks.  And  then  bit  by  bit,  her  and  me, 
we  settled  down  to  be  happy  at  being  together  again, 
you  see.  Our  little  kid,  the  last,  a  five-year-old,  enter- 
tained us  a  treat.  He  wanted  to  play  soldiers  with  me, 
and  I  made  a  little  gun  for  him.  I  explained  the  trenches 
to  him ;  and  he,  all  fluttering  with  delight  like  a  bird, 
he  was  shooting  at  me  and  yelling.  Ah,  the  damned 
young  gentleman,  he  did  it  properly  !  He'll  make  a 
famous  poilu  later  !  I  tell  you,  he's  quite  got  the 
military  spirit  !  " 

A  silence ;  then  an  obscure  murmur  of  talk,  in  the 
midst  of  which  we  catch  the  name  of  Napoleon ;  then 
another  voice,  or  the  same,  saying,  "  Wilhelm,  he's  a 
stinking  beast  to  have  brought  this  war  on.  But 
Napoleon,  he  was  a  great  man  !  " 

Marthereau  is  kneeling  in  front  of  me  in  the  feeble 
and  scanty  rays  of  our  candle,  in  the  bottom  of  this  dark 
ill-enclosed  hole  where  the  cold  shudders  through  at 
intervals,  where  vermin  swarm  and  where  the  sorry 
crowd  of  living  men  endures  the  faint  but  musty  savour 
of  a  tornb ;  and  Marthereau  looks  at  me.  He  still  hears, 
as  I  do,  the  unknown  soldier  who  said,  "  Wilhelm  is  a 
stinking  beast,  but  Napoleon  was  a  great  man,"  and  who 
extolled  the  martial  ardour  of  the  little  boy  still  left  to 


262  UNDER  FIRE 

him.  Marthereau  droops  his  arms  and  wags  his  weary 
head — and  the  shadow  of  the  double  gesture  is  thrown 
on  the  partition  by  the  lean  light  in  a  sudden  caricature. 

"  Ah  !  "  says  my  humble  companion,  "  we're  all  of 
us  not  bad  sorts,  and  we're  unlucky,  and  we're  poor 
devils  as  well.  But  we're  too  stupid,  we're  too  stupid  !  " 

Again  he  turns  his  eyes  on  me.  In  his  be  whiskered 
and  poodle-like  face  I  see  his  fine  eyes  shining  in  wonder- 
ing and  still  confused  contemplation  of  things  which  he 
is  setting  himself  to  understand  in  the  innocence  of  his 
obscurity. 

We  come  out  of  the  uninhabitable  shelter;  the 
weather  has  bettered  a  little ;  the  snow  has  melted,  and 
all  is  soiled  anew.  "  The  wind's  licked  up  the  sugar," 
says  Marthereau. 

****** 

I  am  deputed  to  accompany  Mesnil  Joseph  to  the 
refuge  on  the  Pyldnes  road.  Sergeant  Henriot  gives 
me  charge  of  the  wounded  man  and  hands  me  his  clearing 
order.  "  If  you  meet  Bertrand  on  the  way,"  says 
Henriot,  "  tell  him  to  look  sharp  and  get  busy,  will 
you?  "  Bertrand  went  away  on  liaison  duty  last  .night 
and  they  have  been  waiting  for  him  for  an  hour;  the 
captain  is  getting  impatient  and  threatens  to  lose 
his  temper. 

I  get  under  way  with  Joseph,  who  walks  very  slowly, 
a  little  paler  than  usual,  and  still  taciturn.  Now  and 
again  he  halts,  and  his  face  twitches.  We  follow  the 
communication  trenches,  and  a  comrade  appears 
suddenly.  It  is  Volpatte,  and  he  says,  "  I'm  going  with 
you  to  the  foot  of  the  hill."  As  he  is  off  duty,  he  is 
wielding  a  magnificent  twisted  walking-stick,  and  he 
shakes  in  his  hand  like  castanets  the  precious  pair  of 
scissors  that  never  leaves  him. 

Ah1  three  of  us  come  out  of  the  communication  trench 
when  the  slope  of  the  land  allows  us  to  do  it  without 
danger  of  bullets — the  guns  are  not  firing.  As  soon  as 
we  are  outside  we  stumble  upon  a  gathering  of  men. 
It  is  raining.  Between  the  heavy  legs  planted  there 


UNDER  FIRE  263 

like  little  trees  on  the  grey  plain  in  the  mist  we  see  a 
dead  man.  Volpatte  edges  his  way  in  to  the  horizontal 
form  upon  which  these  upright  ones  are  waiting;  then 
he  turns  round  violently  and  shouts  to  us,  "  It's  Pepin  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Joseph,  who  is  already  almost  fainting. 
He  leans  on  me  and  we  draw  near.  Pepin  is  full  length, 
his  feet  and  hands  bent  and  shrivelled,  and  his  rain- 
washed  face  is  swollen  and  horribly  grey. 

A  man  who  holds  a  pickaxe  and  whose  sweating  face 
is  full  of  little  black  trenches,  recounts  to  us  the  death 
of  Pepin  :  "  He'd  gone  into  a  funk-hole  where  the 
Boches  had  planked  themselves,  and  behold  no  one 
knew  he  was  there  and  they  smoked  the  hole  to  make 
sure  of  cleaning  it  out,  and  the  poor  lad,  they  found  him 
after  the  operation,  corpsed,  and  all  pulled  out  like  a 
cat's  innards  in  the  middle  of  the  Boche  cold  meat 
that  he'd  stuck — and  very  nicely  stuck  too,  I  may  say, 
seeing  I  was  in  business  as  a  butcher  in  the  suburbs  of 
Paris." 

"  One  less  to  the  squad  !  "  says  Volpatte  as  we  go 
away. 

We  are  now  on  the  edge  of  the  ravine  at  the  spot 
where  the  plateau  begins  that  our  desperate  charge 
traversed  last  evening,  and  we  cannot  recognise  it. 
This  plain,  which  had  then  seemed  to  me  quite  level, 
though  it  really  slopes,  is  an  amazing  charnel-house. 
It  swarms  with  corpses,  and  might  be  a  cemetery  of 
which  the  top  has  been  taken  away. 

Groups  of  men  are  moving  about  it,  identifying  the 
dead  of  last  evening  and  last  night,  turning  the  remains 
over,  recognising  them  by  some  detail  in  spite  of  their 
faces.  One  of  these  searchers,  kneeling,  draws  from 
a  dead  hand  an  effaced  and  mangled  photograph — a 
portrait  killed. 

In  the  distance,  black  shell-smoke  goes  up  in  scrolls, 
then  detonates  over  the  horizon.  The  wide  and  stippled 
flight  of  an  army  of  crows  sweeps  the  sky. 

Down  below  among  the  motionless  multitude,  and 
identifiable  by  their  wasting  and  disfigurement,  there 


264  UNDER  FIRE 

are  zouaves,  tirailleurs,  and  Foreign  Legionaries  from  the 
May  attack.  The  extreme  end  of  our  lines  was  then 
on  Berthonval  Wood,  five  or  six  kilometres  from  here. 
In  that  attack,  which  was  one  of  the  most  terrible  of 
the  war  or  of  any  war,  those  men  got  here  in  a  single 
rush.  They  thus  formed  a  point  too  far  advanced  in 
the  wave  of  attack,  and  were  caught  on  the  flanks  between 
the  machine-guns  posted  to  right  and  to  left  on  the 
lines  they  had  overshot.  It  is  some  months  now  since 
death  hollowed  their  eyes  and  consumed  their  cheeks, 
but  even  in  those  storm-scattered  and  dissolving  remains 
one  can  identify  the  havoc  of  the  machine-guns  that 
destroyed  them,  piercing  their  backs  and  loins  and 
severing  them  in  the  middle.  By  the  side  of  heads 
black  and  waxen  as  Egyptian  mummies,  clotted  with 
grubs  and  the  wreckage  of  insects,  where  white  teeth 
still  gleam  in  some  cavities,  by  the  side  of  poor  darkening 
stumps  that  abound  like  a  field  of  old  roots  laid  bare, 
one  discovers  naked  yellow  skulls  wearing  the  red  cloth 
fez,  whose  grey  cover  has  crumbled  like  paper.  Some 
thigh-bones  protrude  from  the  heaps  of  rags  stuck 
together  with  reddish  mud ;  and  from  the  holes  filled 
with  clothes  shredded  and  daubed  with  a  sort  of  tar, 
a  spinal  fragment  emerges.  Some  ribs  are  scattered 
on  the  soil  like  old  cages  broken ;  and  close  by,  blackened 
leathers  are  afloat,  with  water-bottles  and  drinking-cups 
pierced  and  flattened.  About  a  cloven  knapsack,  on 
the  top  of  some  bones  and  a  cluster  of  bits  of  cloth  and 
accoutrements,  some  white  points  are  evenly  scattered; 
by  stooping  one  can  see  that  they  are  the  finger  and  toe 
constructions  of  what  was  once  a  corpse. 

Sometimes  only  a  rag  emerges  from  long  mounds  to 
indicate  that  some  human  being  was  there  destroyed, 
for  all  these  unburied  dead  end  by  entering  the  soil. 

The  Germans,  who  were  here  yesterday,  abandoned 
their  soldiers  by  the  side  of  ours  without  interring  them — 
as  witness  these  three  putrefied  corpses  on  the  top  of 
each  other,  in  each  other,  with  their  round  grey  caps 
whose  red  edge  is  hidden  with  a  grey  band,  their  yellow- 


UNDER  FIRE  265 

grey  jackets,  and  their  green  faces.  I  look  for  the 
features  of  one  of  them.  From  the  depth  of  his  neck 
up  to  the  tufts  of  hair  that  stick  to  the  brim  of  his  cap 
is  just  an  earthy  mass,  the  face  become  an  anthill,  and 
two  rotten  berries  in  place  of  the  eyes.  Another  is  a 
dried  emptiness  flat  on  its  belly,  the  back  in  tatters 
that  almost  flutter,  the  hands,  feet,  and  face  enrooted 
in  the  soil. 

"  Look  !     It's  a  new  one,  this " 

In  the  middle  of  the  plateau  and  in  the  depth  of  the 
rainy  and  bitter  air,  on  the  ghastly  morrow  of  this 
debauch  of  slaughter,  there  is  a  head  planted  in  the 
ground,  a  wet  and  bloodless  head,  with  a  heavy  beard. 

It  is  one  of  ours,  and  the  helmet  is  beside  it.  The 
distended  eyelids  permit  a  little  to  be  seen  of  the  dull 
porcelain  of  his  eyes,  and  one  lip  shines  like  a  slug  in 
the  shapeless  beard.  No  doubt  he  fell  into  a  shell-hole, 
which  was  filled  up  by  another  shell,  burying  him  up 
to  the  neck  like  the  cat's-head  German  of  the  Red 
Tavern  at  Souchez. 

"  I  don't  know  him,"  says  Joseph,  who  has  come  up 
very  slowly  and  speaks  with  difficulty. 

"  /  recognise  him,"  replies  Volpatte. 

"  That  bearded  man  ?  "  says  Joseph. 

"  He  has  no  beard.  Look '  Stooping,  Volpatte 

passes  the  end  of  his  stick  under  the  chin  of  the  corpse 
and  breaks  off  a  sort  of  slab  of  mud  in  which  the  head 
was  set,  a  slab  that  looked  like  a  beard.  Then  he  picks 
up  the  dead  man's  helmet  and  puts  it  on  his  head,  and 
for  a  moment  holds  before  the  eyes  the  round  handles 
of  his  famous  scissors  so  as  to  imitate  spectacles. 

"  Ah  !  "  we  all  cried  together,  "  it's  Cocon  !  " 

When  you  hear  of  or  see  the  death  of  one  of  those 
who  fought  by  your  side  and  lived  exactly  the  same  life, 
you  receive  a  direct  blow  in  the  flesh  before  even  under- 
standing. It  is  truly  as  if  one  heard  of  his  own  destruc- 
tion. It  is  only  later  that  one  begins  to  mourn. 

We  look  at  the  hideous  head  that  is  murder's  jest, 
the  murdered  head  already  and  cruelly  effacing  our 


266  UNDER  FIRE 

memories  of  Cocon.     Another  comrade  less.     We  remain 
there  around  him,  afraid. 

«  He  was " 

We  should  like  to  speak  a  little,  but  do  not  know 
what  to  say  that  would  be  sufficiently  serious  or  telling 
or  true. 

"  Come,"  says  Joseph,  with  an  effort,  wholly  engrossed 
by  his  severe  suffering,  "  I  haven't  strength  enough  to 
be  stopping  all  the  time." 

We  leave  poor  Cocon,  the  ex-statistician,  with  a  last 
look,  a  look  too  short  and  almost  vacant. 

"  One  cannot  imagine "  says  Volpatte. 

No,  one  cannot  imagine.  All  these  disappearances 
at  once  surpass  the  imagination.  There  are  not  enough 
survivors  now.  But  we  have  a  vague  idea  of  the 
grandeur  of  these  dead.  They  have  given  all;  by 
degrees  they  have  given  all  their  strength,  and  finally 
they  have  given  themselves,  en  Hoc.  They  have  out- 
paced life,  and  their  effort  has  something  of  superhuman 
perfection. 

****** 

"  Tiens,    he's    just    been    wounded,    that    one,    and 

yet "     A  fresh  wound  is  moistening  the  neck  of  a 

body  that  is  almost  a  skeleton. 

"It's  a  rat,"  says  Volpatte.  "The  stiffs  are  old 
ones,  but  the  rats  talk  to  'em.  You  see  some  rats  laid 
out — poisoned,  p'raps — near  every  body  or  under  it. 
Tiens,  this  poor  old  chap  shall  show  us  his."  He  lifts 
up  the  foot  of  the  collapsed  remains  and  reveals  two 
dead  rats. 

"  I  should  like  to  find  Farfadet  again,"  says  Volpatte. 
"  I  told  him  to  wait  just  when  we  started  running  and 
he  clipped  hold  of  me.  Poor  lad,  let's  hope  he  waited  !  " 

So  he  goes  to  and  fro,  attracted  towards  the  dead 
by  a  strange  curiosity ;  and  these,  indifferent,  bandy  him 
about  from  one  to  another,  and  at  each  step  he  looks 
on  the  ground.  Suddenly  he  utters  a  cry  of  distress. 
With  his  hand  he  beckons  us  as  he  kneels  to  a  dead  man. 

Bertrand  ! 


UNDER  FIRE  267 

Acute  emotion  grips  us.  He  has  been  killed;  he, 
too,  like  the  rest,  he  who  most  towered  over  us  by  his 
energy  and  intelligence.  By  virtue  of  always  doing 
his  duty,  he  has  at  last  got  killed.  He  has  at  last  found 
death  where  indeed  it  was. 

We  look  at  him,  and  then  turn  away  from  the  sight 
and  look  upon  each  other. 

The  shock  of  his  loss  is  aggravated  by  the  spectacle 
that  his  remains  present,  for  they  are  abominable  to  see. 
Death  has  bestowed  a  grotesque  look  and  attitude  on 
the  man  who  was  so  comely  and  so  tranquil.  With  his 
hair  scattered  over  his  eyes,  his  moustache  trailing  in 
his  mouth,  and  his  face  swollen — he  is  laughing.  One 
eye  is  widely  open,  the  other  shut,  and  the  tongue  lolls 
out.  His  arm*  are  outstretched  in  the  form  of  a  cross ; 
the  hands  open,  the  fingers  separated.  The  right  leg 
is  straight.  The  left,  whence  flowed  the  hemorrhage 
that  made  him  die,  has  been  broken  by  a  shell;  it  is 
twisted  into  a  circle,  dislocated,  slack,  invertebrate. 
A  mournful  irony  has  invested  the  last  writhe  of  his 
agony  with  the  appearance  of  a  clown's  antic. 

We  arrange  him,  and  lay  him  straight,  and  tranquilhse 
the  horrible  mask.  Volpatte  has  taken  a  pocket-book 
from  him  and  places  it  reverently  among  his  own  papers, 
by  the  side  of  the  portrait  of  his  own  wife  and  children. 
That  done,  he  shakes  his  head  :  "  He — he  was  truly  a 
good  sort,  old  man.  When  he  said  anything,  that  was 
the  proof  that  it  was  true.  Ah,  we  needed  him  badly  !  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  we  had  need  of  him  always." 

"  Ah,  la,  la  !  "  murmurs  Volpatte,  and  he  trembles. 
Joseph  repeats  in  a  weak  voice,  "  Ah,  nom  dc  Dicu  I  Ah, 
nom  dc  Dieu  !  " 

The  plateau  is  as  covered  with  people  as  a  public 
square;  fatigue-parties  in  detachments,  and  isolated 
men.  Here  and  there,  the  stretcher-bearers  are  be- 
ginning (patiently  and  in  a  small  way)  their  huge  and 
endless  task. 

Volpatte  leaves  us,  to  return  to  the  trench  and 
announce  our  new  losses,  and  above  all  the  great  gap 


268  UNDER  FIRE 

left  by  Bertrand.  He  says  to  Joseph,  "We  shan't 
lose  sight  of  you,  eh  ?  Write  us  a  line  now  and  again — 
just,  '  All  goes  well ;  signed,  Camembert,'  eh  ?  "  He 
disappears  among  the  people  who  cross  each  other's 
path  in  the  expanse  now  completely  possessed  by  a 
mournful  and  endless  rain. 

Joseph  leans  on  me  and  we  go  down  into  the  ravine 
The  slope  by  which  we  descend  is  known  as  the  Zouaves 
Cells.  In  the  May  attack,  the  Zouaves  had  all  begun  to 
dig  themselves  individual  shelters,  and  round  these  they 
were  exterminated.  Some  are  still  seen,  prone  on  the 
brim  of  an  incipient  hole,  with  their  trenching-tools  in 
their  fleshless  hands  or  looking  at  them  with  the  cavernous 
hollows  where  shrivel  the  entrails  of  eyes.  The  ground 
is  so  full  of  dead  that  the  earth-falls  uncover  places  that 
bristle  with  feet,  with  half -clothed  skeletons,  and  with 
ossuaries  of  skulls  placed  side  by  side  on  the  steep  slope 
like  porcelain  globe- jars. 

In  the  ground  here  there  are  several  strata  of  dead, 
and  in  many  places  the  delving  of  the  shells  has  brought 
out  the  oldest  and  set  them  out  in  display  on  the  top  of 
the  new  ones.  The  bottom  of  the  ravine  is  completely 
carpeted  with  debris  of  weapons,  clothing,  and  imple- 
ments. One  tramples  shell  fragments,  old  iron,  loaves 
and  even  biscuits  that  have  fallen  from  knapsacks  and 
are  not  yet  dissolved  by  the  rain.  Mess-tins,  pots  of 
jam,  and  helmets  are  pierced  and  riddled  by  bullets — 
the  scrapings  and  scum  of  a  hell-broth;  and  the  dis- 
located posts  that  survive  are  stippled  with  holes. 

The  trenches  that  run  in  this  valley  have  a  look  of 
earthquake  crevasses,  and  as  if  whole  tombs  of  uncouth 
things  had  been  emptied  on  the  ruins  of  the  earth's 
convulsion.  And  there,  where  no  dead  are,  the  very 
earth  is  cadaverous. 

We  follow  the  International  Trench,  still  fluttering 
with  rainbow  rags — a  shapeless  trench  which  the  con- 
fusion of  torn  stuffs  invests  with  an  air  of  a  trench 
assassinated — to  a  place  where  the  irregular  and  winding 
ditch  forms  an  elbow.  All  the  way  along,  as  far  as 


UNDER  FIRE  269 

an  earthwork  barricade  that  blocks  the  way,  German 
corpses  are  entangled  and  knotted  as  in  a  torrent  of  the 
damned,  some  of  them  emerging  from  muddy  caves  in 
the  middle  of  a  bewildering  conglomerate  of  beams, 
ropes,  creepers  of  iron,  trench-rollers,  hurdles,  and  bullet- 
screens.  At  the  barrier  itself,  one  corpse  stands  up- 
right, fixed  in  the  other  dead,  while  another,  planted 
in  the  same  spot,  stands  obliquely  in  the  dismal  place, 
the  whole  arrangement  looking  like  part  of  a  big  wheel 
embedded  in  the  mud,  or  the  shattered  sail  of  a  wind- 
mill. And  over  all  this,  this  catastrophe  of  flesh  and 
filthiness,  religious  images  are  broadcast,  postcards, 
pious  pamphlets,  leaflets  on  which  prayers  are  written 
in  Gothic  lettering — they  have  scattered  themselves 
in  waves  from  gutted  clothing.  The  paper  words  seem 
to  bedeck  with  blossom  these  shores  of  pestilence,  this 
Valley  of  Death,  with  their  countless  pallors  of  barren 
lies. 

I  seek  a  solid  footway  to  guide  Joseph  in — his  wound 
is  paralysing  him  by  degrees,  and  he  feels  it  extending 
throughout  his  body.  While  I  support  him,  and  he  is 
looking  at  nothing,  I  look  upon  the  ghastly  upheaval 
through  which  we  are  escaping. 

A  German  sergeant  is  seated,  here  where  we  tread, 
supported  by  the  riven  timbers  that  once  formed  the 
shelter  of  a  sentry.  There  is  a  little  hole  under  his  eye ; 
the  thrust  of  a  bayonet  has  nailed  him  to  the  planks 
through  his  face.  In  front  of  him,  also  sitting,  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  fists  on  his  chin,  there  is  a 
man  who  has  all  the  top  of  his  skull  taken  off  like  a 
boiled  egg.  Beside  them — an  awful  watchman  ! — the 
half  of  a  man  is  standing,  a  man  sliced  in  two  from  scalp 
to  stomach,  upright  against  the  earthen  wall.  I  do  not 
know  where  the  other  half  of  this  human  post  may  be, 
whose  eye  hangs  down  above  and  whose  bluish  viscera 
curl  spirally  round  his  leg. 

Down  below,  one's  foot  detaches  itself  from  a  matrix 
of  blood,  stiffened  with  French  bayonets  that  have 
been  bent,  doubled,  and  twisted  by  the  force  of  the  blow. 


270  UNDER  FIRE 

Through  a  gap  in  the  mutilated  wall  one  espies  a 
recess  where  the  bodies  of  soldiers  of  the  Prussian 
Guard  seem  to  kneel  in  the  pose  of  suppliants,  run 
through  from  behind,  with  blood-stained  gaps,  impaled. 
Out  of  this  group  they  have  pulled  to  its  edge  a  huge 
Senegalese  tirailleur,  who,  petrified  in  the  contorted 
position  where  death  seized  him,  leans  upon  empty  air 
and  holds  fast  by  his  feet,  staring  at  his  two  severed 
wrists.  No  doubt  a  bomb  had  exploded  in  his  hands; 
and  since  all  his  face  is  alive,  he  seems  to  be  gnawing 
maggots. 

"  It  was  here,"  says  a  passing  soldier  of  an  Alpine 
regiment,  "  that  they  did  the  white  flag  trick ;  and  as 
they'd  got  Africans  to  deal  with,  you  bet  they  got  it 
hot  ! — Tiens,  there's  the  white  flag  itself  that  these 
dunghills  used." 

He  seizes  and  shakes  a  long  handle  that  lies  there. 
A  square  of  white  stuff  is  nailed  to  it,  and  unfolds  itself 
innocently. 

A  procession  of  shovel-bearers  advances  along  the 
battered  trench.  They  have  an  order  to  shovel  the 
earth  into  the  relics  of  the  trenches,  to  stop  everything 
up,  so  that  the  bodies  may  be  buried  on  the  spot.  Thus 
these  helmeted  warriors  will  here  perform  the  work  of 
the  redresser  of  wrongs  as  they  restore  their  full  shape 
to  the  fields  and  make  level  the  cavities  already  half 
filled  by  cargoes  of  invaders. 

###### 

Some  one  calls  me  from  the  other  side  of  the  trench, 
a  man  sitting  on  the  ground  and  leaning  against  a  stake. 
It  is  Papa  Ramure.  Through  his  unbuttoned  greatcoat 
and  jacket  I  see  bandages  around  his  chest.  "  The 
ambulance  men  have  been  to  tuck  me  up,"  he  says,  in 
a  weak  and  stertorous  voice,  "  but  they  can't  take  me 
away  from  here  before  evening.  But  I  know  all  right 
that  I'm  petering  out  every  minute." 

He  jerks  his  head.  "  Stay  a  bit,"  he  asks  me.  He  is 
much  moved,  and  the  tears  are  flowing.  He  offers  his 
hand  and  holds  mine.  He  wanti  to  §ay  a  lot  of  things 


UNDER  FIRE  271 

to  me  and  almost  to  make  confession.  "  I  was  a  straight 
man  before  the  war,"  he  says,  with  trickling  tears; 
"  I  worked  from  morning  to  night  to  feed  my  little 
lot.  And  then  I  came  here  to  kill  Boches.  And  now, 
I've  got  killed.  Listen,  listen,  listen,  don't  go  away, 
listen  to  me " 

"  I  must  take  Joseph  back — he's  at  the  end  of  his 
strength.  I'll  come  back  afterwards." 

Ramure  lifted  his  streaming  eyes  to  the  wounded 
man.  "  Not  only  living,  but  wounded  !  Escaped  from 
death !  Ah,  some  women  and  children  are  lucky ! 
All  right,  take  him,  take  him,  and  come  back — I  hope 
I  shall  be  waiting  for  you " 

Now  we  must  climb  the  other  slope  of  the  ravine, 
and  we  enter  the  deformed  and  maltreated  ditch  of  the 
old  Trench  97. 

Suddenly  a  frantic  whistling  tears  the  air  and  there 
is  a  shower  of  shrapnel  above  us.  Meteorites  flash  and 
scatter  in  fearful  flight  in  the  heart  of  the  yellow  clouds. 
Revolving  missiles  rush  through  the  heavens  to  break 
and  burn  upon  the  hill,  to  ransack  it  and  exhume  the 
old  bones  of  men ;  and  the  thundering  flames  multiply 
themselves  along  an  even  line. 

It  is  the  barrage  fire  beginning  again.  Like  children 
we  cry,  "  Enough,  enough  !  " 

In  this  fury  of  fatal  engines,  this  mechanical  cataclysm 
that  pursues  us  through  space,  there  is  something  that 
surpasses  human  strength  and  will,  something  super- 
natural. Joseph,  standing  with  his  hand  in  mine,  looks 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  storm  of  rending  explosions. 
He  bows  his  head  like  an  imprisoned  beast,  distracted  : 
"What,  again!  Always,  then!"  he  growls;  "after 
all  we've  done  and  all  we've  seen — and  now  it  begins 
again  !  Ah,  non,  non  !  " 

He  falls  on  his  knees,  gasps  for  breath,  and  throws  a 
futile  look  of  full  hatred  before  him  and  behind  him. 
He  repeats,  "  It's  never  finished,  never  !  " 

I  take  him  by  the  arm  and  raise  him.  "  Come ;  it'll 
be  finished  for  you." 


272  UNDER  FIRE 

We  must  dally  there  awhile  before  climbing,  so  I  will 
go  and  bring  back  Ramure  in  extremis,  who  is  waiting 
for  me.  But  Joseph  clings  to  me,  and  then  I  notice  a 
movement  of  men  about  the  spot  where  I  left  the  dying 
man.  I  can  guess  what  it  means ;  it  is  no  longer  worth 
while  to  go  there. 

The  ground  of  the  ravine  where  we  two  are  closely 
clustered  to  abide  the  tempest  is  quivering,  and  at  each 
shot  we  feel  the  deep  simoom  of  the  shells.  But  in  the 
hole  where  we  are  there  is  scarcely  any  risk  of  being  hit. 
At  the  first  lull,  some  of  the  men  who  were  also  waiting 
detach  themselves  and  begin  to  go  up ;  stretcher-bearers 
redouble  their  huge  efforts  to  carry  a  body  and  climb, 
making  one  think  of  stubborn  ants  pushed  back  by 
successive  grains  of  sand;  wounded  men  and  liaison 
men  move  again. 

"  Let's  go  on,"  says  Joseph,  with  sagging  shoulders, 
as  he  measures  the  hill  with  his  eye — the  last  stage  of  his 
Gethsemane. 

There  are  trees  here;  a  row  of  excoriated  willow 
trunks,  some  of  wide-  countenance,  and  others  hollowed 
and  yawning,  like  coffins  on  end.  The  scene  through 
which  we  are  struggling  is  rent  and  convulsed,  with 
hills  and  chasms,  and  with  such  sombre  swellings  as 
if  all  the  clouds  of  storm  had  rolled  down  here.  Above 
the  tortured  earth,  this  stampeded  file  of  trunks  stands 
forth  against  a  striped  brown  sky,  milky  in  places  and 
obscurely  sparkling — a  sky  of  agate. 

Across  the  entry  to  Trench  97  a  felled  oak  twists  his 
great  body,  and  a  corpse  stops  up  the  trench.  Its  head 
and  legs  are  buried  in  the  ground.  The  dirty  water 
that  trickles  in  the  trench  has  covered  it  with  a  sandy 
glaze,  and  through  the  moist  deposit  the  chest  and  belly 
bulge  forth,  clad  in  a  shirt.  We  stride  over  the  frigid 
remains,  slimy  and  pale,  that  suggest  the  belly  of  a 
stranded  crocodile ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  do  so,  by  reason 
of  the  soft  and  slippery  ground.  We  have  to  plunge 
our  hands  up  to  the  wrists  in  the  mud  of  the  wall. 

At  this  moment  an  infernal  whistle  falls  on  us  and 


UNDER  FIRE  273 

we  bend  like  bushes.  The  shell  bursts  in  the  air  in 
front  of  us,  deafening  and  blinding,  and  buries  us  under 
a  horribly  sibilant  mountain  of  dark  smoke.  A  climbing 
soldier  has  churned  the  air  with  his  arms  and  dis- 
appeared, hurled  into  some  hole.  Shouts  have  gone  up 
and  fallen  again  like  rubbish.  While  we  are  looking, 
through  the  great  black  veil  that  the  wind  tears  from  the 
ground  and  dismisses  into  the  sky,  at  the  bearers  who 
are  putting  down  a  stretcher,  running  to  the  place  of  the 
explosion  and  picking  up  something  inert — I  recall  the 
unforgettable  scene  when  my  brother-in-arms,  Poterloo, 
whose  heart  was  so  full  of  hope,  vanished  with  his  arms 
outstretched  in  the  flame  of  a  shell. 

We  arrive  at  last  on  the  summit,  which  is  marked 
as  with  a  signal  by  a  wounded  and  frightful  man.  He 
is  upright  in  the  wind,  shaken  but  upright,  enrooted 
there.  In  his  uplifted  and  wind-tossed  cape  we  see  a 
yelling  and  convulsive  face.  We  pass  by  him,  and  he 
is  like  a  sort  of  screaming  tree. 

*####*• 

We  have  arrived  at  our  old  first  line,  the  one  from 
which  we  set  off  for  the  attack.  We  sit  down  on  a 
firing-step  with  our  backs  to  the  holes  cut  for  our  exodus 
at  the  last  minute  by  the  sappers.  Euterpe,  the  cyclist, 
passes  and  gives  us  good-day.  Then  he  turns  in  his 
tracks  and  draws  from  the  cuff  of  his  coat-sleeve  an 
envelope,  whose  protruding  edge  had  conferred  a  white 
stripe  on  him. 

"  It's  you,  isn't  it,"  he  says  to  me,  "  that  takes 
Biquet's  letters  that's  dead?  "— "  Yes."— "  Here's  a 
returned  one ;  the  address  has  hopped  it." 

The  envelope  was  exposed,  no  doubt,  to  rain  on  the 
top  of  a  packet,  and  the  address  is  no  longer  legible 
among  the  violet  mottlings  on  the  dried  and  frayed  paper. 
Alone  there  survives  in  a  corner  the  address  of  the 
sender.  I  pull  the  letter  out  gently — "  My  dear  mother  " 
— Ah,  I  remember  !  Biquet,  now  lying  in  the  open  air 
in  the  very  trench  where  we  are  halted,  wrote  that  letter 
not  long  ago  in  our  quarters  at  Gauchin-l'Abbe,  one 
T 


274  UNDER  FIRE 

flaming  and  splendid  afternoon,  in  reply  to  a  letter  from 
his  mother,  whose  fears  for  him  had  proved  groundless 
and  made  him  laugh — "  You  think  I'm  in  the  cold  and 
rain  and  danger.  Not  at  all ;  on  the  contrary,  all  that's 
finished.  It's  hot,  we're  sweating,  and  we've  nothing 
to  do  only  to  stroll  about  in  the  sunshine.  I  laughed 
to  read  your  letter " 

I  return  to  the  frail  and  damaged  envelope  the  letter 
which,  if  chance  had  not  averted  this  new  irony,  would 
have  been  read  by  the  old  peasant  woman  at  the  moment 
when  the  body  of  her  son  is  a  wet  nothing  in  the  cold 
and  the  storm,  a  nothing  that  trickles  and  flows  like  a 
dark  spring  on  the  wall  of  the  trench. 

Joseph  has  leaned  his  head  backwards.  Hi 3  eyes 
close  for  a  moment,  his  mouth  half  opens,  and  his 
breathing  is  fitful. 

"  Courage  !  "  I  say  to  him,  and  he  opens  his  eyes  again. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  replies,  "it  isn't  to  me  you  should  say 
that.  Look  at  those  chaps,  there,  they're  going  back 
yonder,  and  you  too,  you're  going  back.  It  all  has  to 
go  on  for  you  others.  Ah,  one  must  be  really  strong  to 
go  on,  to  go  on  !  " 


XXI 

THE   REFUGE 

FROM  this  point  onwards  we  are  in  sight  of  the  enemy 
observation-posts,  and  must  no  longer  leave  the  com- 
munication trenches.  First  we  follow  that  of  the 
Pyl6nes  road.  The  trench  is  cut  along  the  side  of  the 
road,  and  the  road  itself  is  wiped  out ;  so  are  its  trees. 
Half  of  it,  all  the  way  along,  has  been  chewed  and 
swallowed  by  the  trench;  and  what  is  left  of  it  has 
been  invaded  by  the  earth  and  the  grass,  and  mingled 
with  the  fields  in  the  fulness  of  time.  At  some  places 
in  the  trench — there,  where  a  sandbag  has  burst  and 
left  only  a  muddy  cell — you  may  see  again  on  the  level 
of  your  eyes  the  stony  ballast  of  the  ex-road,  cut  to  the 
quick,  or  even  the  roots  of  the  bordering  trees  that 
have  been  cut  down  to  embody  in  the  trench  wall. 
The  latter  is  as  slashed  and  uneven  as  if  it  were  a  wave 
of  earth  and  rubbish  and  dark  scum  that  the  immense 
plain  has  spat  out  and  pushed  against  the  edge  of  the 
trench. 

We  arrive  at  a  junction  of  trenches,  and  on  the  top 
of  the  maltreated  hillock  which  is  outlined  on  the 
cloudy  greyness,  a  mournful  signboard  stands  crookedly 
in  the  wind.  The  trench  system  becomes  still  more 
cramped  and  close,  and  the  men  who  are  flowing  towards 
the  clearing-station  from  all  parts  of  the  sector  multiply 
and  throng  in  the  deep-dug  ways. 

These  lamentable  lanes  are  staked  out  with  corpses. 
At  uneven  intervals  their  walls  are  broken  into  by 
quite  recent  gaps,  extending  to  their  full  depth,  by 
funnel-holes  of  fresh  earth  which  trespass  upon  the 
unwholesome  land  beyond,  where  earthy  bodies  are 

275 


276  UNDER  FIRE 

squatting  with  their  chins  on  their  knees  or  leaning 
against  the  wall  as  straight  and  silent  as  the  rifles  which 
wait  beside  them.  Some  of  these  standing  dead  turn 
their  blood-bespattered  faces  towards  the  survivors ; 
others  exchange  their  looks  with  the  sky's  emptiness. 

Joseph  halts  to  take  breath.  I  say  to  him  as  to  a 
child,  "  We're  nearly  there,  we're  nearly  there/' 

The  sinister  ramparts  of  this  way  of  desolation  con- 
tract still  more.  They  impel  a  feeling  of  suffocation, 
of  a  nightmare  of  falling  which  oppresses  and  strangles ; 
and  in  these  depths  where  the  walls  seem  to  be  coming 
nearer  and  closing  in,  you  are  forced  to  halt,  to  wriggle 
a  path  for  yourself,  to  vex  and  disturb  the  dead,  to  be 
pushed  about  by  the  endless  disorder  of  the  files  that 
flow  along  these  hinder  trenches,  files  made  up  of 
messengers,  of  the  maimed,  of  men  who  groan  and  who 
cry  aloud,  who  hurry  frantically,  crimsoned  by  fever 
or  pallid  and  visibly  shaken  by  pain. 

****** 

All  this  throng  at  last  pulls  up  and  gathers  and 
groans  at  the  crossways  where  the  burrows  of  the 
Refuge  open  out. 

A  doctor  is  trying  with  shouts  and  gesticulations  to 
keep  a  little  space  clear  from  the  rising  tide  that  beats 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  shelter,  where  he  applies 
summary  bandages  in  the  open  air;  they  say  he  has 
not  ceased  to  do  it,  nor  his  helpers  either,  all  the  night 
and  all  the  day,  that  he  is  accomplishing  a  superhuman 
task. 

When  they  leave  his  hands,  some  of  the  wounded  are 
swallowed  up  by  the  black  hole  of  the  Refuge ;  others 
are  sent  back  to  the  bigger  clearing-station  contrived 
in  the  trench  on  the  Bethune  road. 

In  this  confined  cavity  formed  by  the  crossing  of  the 
ditches,  in  the  bottom  of  a  sort  of  robbers'  den,  we 
waited  two  hours,  buffeted,  squeezed,  choked  and 
blinded,  climbing  over  each  other  like  cattle,  in  an 
odour  of  blood  and  butchery.  There  are  faces  that 
become  more  distorted  and  emaciated  from  minute  to 


THE  REFUGE  277 

minute.  One  of  the  patients  can  no  longer  hold  back 
his  tears ;  they  come  in  floods,  and  as  he  shakes  his 
head  he  sprinkles  his  neighbours.  Another,  bleeding 
like  a  fountain,  shouts,  "Hey,  there !  have  a  look  at  me  !  " 
A  young  man  with  burning  eyes  yells  like  a  soul  in 
hell,  "  I'm  on  fire  !  "  and  he  roars  and  blows  like  a 

furnace. 

****** 

Joseph  is  bandaged.  He  thrusts  a  way  through  to 
me  and  holds  out  his  hand  :  "  It  isn't  serious,  it  seems ; 
good-bye,"  he  says. 

At  once  we  are  separated  in  the  mob.  With  my 
last  glance  I  see  his  wasted  face  and  the  vacant  absorp- 
tion in  his  trouble  as  he  is  meekly  led  away  by  a 
Divisional  stretcher-bearer  whose  hand  is  on  hi3 
shoulder;  and  suddenly  I  see  him  no  more.  In  war, 
life  separates  us  just  as  death  does,  without  our  having 
even  the  time  to  think  about  it. 

They  tell  me  not  to  stay  there,  but  to  go  down  into 
the  Refuge  to  rest  before  returning.  There  are  two 
entries,  very  low  and  very  narrow,  on  the  level  of  the 
ground.  This  one  is  flush  with  the  mouth  of  a  sloping 
gallery,  narrow  as  the  conduit  of  a  sewer.  In  order  to 
penetrate  the  Refuge,  one  must  first  turn  round  and 
work  backwards  with  bent  body  into  the  shrunken 
pipe,  and  here  the  feet  discover  steps.  Every  three 
paces  there  is  a  deep  step. 

Once  inside  you  have  a  first  impression  of  being 
trapped — that  there  is  not  room  enough  either  to 
descend  or  climb  out.  As  you  go  on  burying  yourself 
in  the  gulf,  the  nightmare  of  suffocation  continues  that 
you  progressively  endured  as  you  advanced  along  the 
bowels  of  the  trenches  before  foundering  in  here.  On 
all  sides  you  bump  and  scrape  yourself,  you  are  clutched 
by  the  tightness  of  the  passage,  you  are  wedged  and 
stuck.  I  have  to  change  the  position  of  my  cartridge 
pouches  by  sliding  them  round  the  belt  and  to  take  my 
bags  in  my  arms  against  my  chest.  At  the  fourth  step 
the  suffocation  increases  still  more  and  one  has  a 


278  UNDER  FIRE 

moment  of  agony;  little  as  one  may  lift  his  knee  for 
the  rearward  step,  his  back  strikes  the  roof.  In  this 
spot  it  is  necessary  to  go  on  all  fours,  still  backwards. 
As  you  go  down  into  the  depth,  a  pestilent  atmosphere 
and  heavy  as  earth  buries  you.  Your  hands  touch  only 
the  cold,  sticky  and  sepulchral  clay  of  the  wall,  which 
bears  you  down  on  all  sides  and  enshrouds  you  in  a 
dismal  solitude ;  its  blind  and  mouldy  breath  touches 
your  face.  On  the  last  steps,  reached  after  long  labour, 
one  is  assailed  by  a  hot,  unearthly  clamour  that  rises 
from  the  hole  as  from  a  sort  of  kitchen. 

When  you  reach  at  last  the  bottom  of  this  laddered 
sap  that  elbows  and  compresses  you  at  every  step,  the 
evil  dream  is  not  ended,  for  you  find  yourself  in  a  long 
but  very  narrow  cavern  where  gloom  reigns,  a  mere 
corridor  not  more  than  five  feet  high.  If  you  cease  to 
stoop  and  to  walk  with  bended  knees,  your  head  violently 
strikes  the  planks  that  roof  the  Refuge,  and  the  new- 
comers are  heard  to  growl — more  or  less  forcefully, 
according  to  their  temper  and  condition — "  Ah,  lucky 
I've  got  my  tin  hat  on  !  " 

One  makes  out  the  gesture  of  some  one  who  is  squat- 
ting in  an  angle.  It  is  an  ambulance  man  on  guard, 
whose  monotone  says  to  each  arrival,  "  Take  the  mud 
off  your  boots  before  going  in."  So  you  stumble  into 
an  accumulating  pile  of  mud ;  it  entangles  you  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  on  this  threshold  of  hell. 

In  the  hubbub  of  lamentation  and  groaning,  in  the 
strong  smell  of  a  countless  concentration  of  wounds,  in 
this  blinking  cavern  of  confused  and  unintelligible  life, 
I  try  first  to  get  my  bearings.  Some  weak  candle  flames 
are  shining  along  the  Refuge,  but  they  only  relieve  the 
darkness  in  the  spots  where  they  pierce  it.  At  the 
farthest  end  faint  daylight  appears,  as  it  might  to  a 
dungeon  prisoner  at  the  bottom  of  an  oubliette.  This 
obscure  vent-hole  allows  one  to  make  out  some  big 
objects  ranged  along  the  corridor;  they  are  low 
stretchers,  like  coffins.  Around  and  above  them  one 
then  dimly  discerns  the  movement  of  broken  and 


THE   REFUGE  279 

drooping  shadows,  and  the  stirring  of  ranks  and  groups 
of  spectres  against  the  walls. 

I  turn  round.  At  the  end  opposite  that  where  the 
far-away  light  leaks  through,  a  mob  is  gathered  in 
front  of  a  tent-cloth  which  reaches  from  the  ceiling 
to  the  ground,  and  thus  forms  an  apartment,  whose 
illumination  shines  through  the  oily  yellow  material. 
In  this  retreat,  anti-tetanus  injections  are  going  on  by 
the  light  of  an  acetylene  lamp.  When  the  cloth  is 
lifted  to  allow  some  one  to  enter  or  leave,  the  glare 
brutally  besplashes  the  disordered  rags  of  the  wounded 
stationed  in  front  to  await  their  treatment.  Bowed  by 
the  ceiling,  seated,  kneeling  or  grovelling,  they  push 
each  other  in  the  desire  not  to  lose  their  turn  or  to  steal 
some  other's,  and  they  bark  like  dogs,  "  My  turn  !  " — 
"  Me  !  "— "  Me  !  "  In  this  corner  of  modified  conflict 
the  tepid  stihks  of  acetylene  and  bleeding  men  are 
horrible  to  swallow. 

I  turn  away  from  it  and  seek  elsewhere  to  find  a 
place  where  I  may  sit  down.  I  go  forward  a  little, 
groping,  still  stooping  and  curled  up,  and  my  hands  in 
front. 

By  grace  of  the  flame  which  a  smoker  holds  over  his 
pipe  I  see  a  bench  before  me,  full  of  beings.  My  eyes 
are  growing  accustomed  to  the  gloom  that  stagnates  in 
the  cave,  and  I  can  make  out  pretty  well  this  row  of 
people  whose  bandages  and  swathings  dimly  whiten 
their  heads  and  limbs.  Crippled,  gashed,  deformed, 
motionless  or  restless,  fast  fixed  in  this  kind  of  barge, 
they  present  an  incongruous  collection  of  suffering  and 
misery. 

One  of  them  cries  out  suddenly,  half  rises,  and  then 
sits  down  again.  His  neighbour,  whose  greatcoat  is 
torn  and  his  head  bare,  looks  at  him  and  says  to  him — 

"  What's  the  use  of  worrying  ?  " 

And  he  repeats  the  sentence  several  times  at  random, 
gazing  straight  in  front  of  him,  his  hands  on  his  knees. 

A  young  man  in  the  middle  of  the  seat  is  talking  to 
himself.  He  says  that  he  is  an  aviator.  There  are 


280  UNDER  FIRE 

burns  down  one  side  of  his  body  and  on  his  face.  In 
his  fever  he  is  still  burning ;  it  seems  to  him  that  he  is 
still  gnawed  by  the  pointed  flames  that  leaped  from  his 
engine.  He  is  muttering,  "  Gott  mil  uns  !  "  and  then, 
"  God  is  with  us  !  " 

A  zouave  with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  who  sits  awry  and 
seems  to  carry  his  shoulder  like  a  torturing  burden, 
speaks  to  him  :  "  You're  the  aviator  that  fell,  aren't 
you  ?  " 

"  I've  seen — things "  replies  the  flying-man 

laboriously. 

"I  too,  I've  seen  some!"  the  soldier  interrupts; 
"  some  people  couldn't  stick  it,  to  see  what  I've  seen." 

"  Come  and  sit  here,"  says  one  of  the  men  on  the 
seat  to  me,  making  room  as  he  speaks.  "  Are  you 
wounded?  " 

"  No  ;  I  brought  a  wounded  man  here,  and  I'm  going 
back." 

"  You're  worse  than  wounded  then ;  come  and  sit 
down." 

"  I  was  mayor  in  my  place,"  explains  one  of  the 
sufferers,  "  but  when  I  go  back  no  one  will  know  me 
again,  it's  so  long  now  that  I've  been  in  misery." 

"  Four  hours  now  have  I  been  stuck  on  this  bench," 
groans  a  sort  of  mendicant,  whose  shaking  hand  holds 
his  helmet  on  his  knees  like  an  alms-bowl,  whose  head 
is  lowered  and  his  back  rounded. 

"  We're  waiting  to  be  cleared,  you  know,"  I  am 
informed  by  a  big  man  who  pants  and  sweats — all  the 
bulk  of  him  seems  to  be  boiling.  His  moustache  hangs 
as  if  it  had  come  half  unstuck  through  the  moisture  of 
his  face.  He  turns  two  big  and  lightless  eyes  on  me, 
and  his  wound  is  not  visible. 

"  That's  so,"  says  another;  "  all  the  wounded  of  the 
Brigade  come  and  pile  themselves  up  here  one  after 
another,  without  counting  them  from  other  places. 
Yes,  look  at  it  now;  this  hole  here,  it's  the  midden  for 
the  whole  Brigade." 

"  I'm  gangrened,  I'm  smashed,  I'm  all  in  bits  inside," 


THE  REFUGE  281 

droned  one  who  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands  and  spoke 
through  his  fingers ;  "  yet  up  to  last  week  I  was  young 
and  I  was  clean.  They've  changed  me.  Now,  I've  got 
nothing  but  a  dirty  old  decomposed  body  to  drag  along." 
"  Yesterday,"  says  another,  "  I  was  twenty-six  years 
old.  And  now  how  old  am  I  ?  "  He  tries  to  get  up, 
so  as  to  show  us  his  shaking  and  faded  face,  worn  out 
in  a  night,  to  show  us  the  emaciation,  the  depression 
of  cheeks  and  eye-sockets,  and  the  dying  flicker  of  light 
in  his  greasy  eye. 

"  It  hurts  !  "  humbly  says  some  one  invisible. 
"What's  the  use  of  worrying?"  repeats  the  other 
mechanically. 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  the  aviator  cried, 
"  The  padres  were  trying  on  both  sides  to  hide  their 
voices." 

"  What's  that  mean  ?  "  said  the  astonished  zouave. 
"  Are  you  taking  leave  of  'em,  old  chap?  "  asked  a 
chasseur  wounded  in  the  hand  and  with  one  arm  bound 
to  his  body,  as  his  eyes  left  the  mummified  limb  for  a 
moment  to  glance  at  the  flying-man. 

The  latter's  looks  were  distraught ;  he  was  trying  to 
interpret  a  mysterious  picture  which  everywhere  he 
saw  before  his  eyes — 

"  Up  there,  from  the  sky,  you  don't  see  much,  you 
know.  Among  the  squares  of  the  fields  and  the  little 
heaps  of  the  villages  the  roads  run  like  white  cotton. 
You  can  make  out,  too,  some  hollow  threads  that  look 
as  if  they'd  been  traced  with  a  pin-point  and  scratched 
through  fine  sand.  These  nets  that  festoon  the  plain 
with  regularly  wavy  marks,  they're  the  trenches.  Last 
Sunday  morning  I  was  flying  over  the  firing-line.  Be- 
tween our  first  lines  and  their  first  lines,  between  their 
extreme  edges,  between  the  fringes  of  the  two  huge 
armies  that  are  up  against  each  other,  looking  at  each 
other  and  not  seeing,  and  waiting — it's  not  very  far; 
sometimes  forty  yards,  sometimes  sixty.  To  me  it 
looked  about  a  stride,  at  the  great  height  where  I  was 
planing.  And  behold  I  could  make  out  two  crowds, 


282  UNDER  FIRE 

one  among  the  Bodies,  and  one  of  ours,  in  these  parallel 
lines  that  seemed  to  touch  each  other;  each  was  a 
solid,  lively  lump,  and  all  around  'em  were  dots  like 
grains  of  black  sand  scattered  on  grey  sand,  and  these 
hardly  budged — it  didn't  look  like  an  alarm  !  So  I 
went  down  several  turns  to  investigate 

"  Then  I  understood.  It  was  Sunday,  and  there 
were  two  religious  services  being  held  under  my  e^es — 
the  altar,  the  padre,  and  all  the  crowd  of  chaps.  The 
more  I  went  down  the  more  I  could  see  that  the  two 
things  were  alike — so  exactly  alike  that  it  looked  silly. 
One  of  the  services — whichever  you  like — was  a  reflec- 
tion of  the  other,  and  I  wondered  if  I  was  seeing  double. 
I  went  down  lower;  they  didn't  fire  at  me.  Why? 
I  don't  know  at  all.  Then  I  could  hear.  I  heard  one 
murmur,  one  only.  I  could  only  gather  a  single  prayer 
that  came  up  to  me  en  bloc,  the  sound  of  a  single  chant 
that  passed  by  me  on  its  way  to  heaven.  I  went  to 
and  fro  in  space  to  listen  to  this  faint  mixture  of  hymns 
that  blended  together  just  the  same  although  they 
were  one  against  the  other ;  and  the  more  they  tried  to 
get  on  top  of  each  other,  the  more  they  were  blended 
together  up  in  the  heights  of  the  sky  where  I  was 
floating. 

"  I  got  some  shrapnel  just  at  the  moment  when,  very 
low  down,  I  made  out  the  two  voices  from  the  earth 
that  made  up  the  one—'  Gott  mil  uns  ! '  and  '  God  is 
with  us  ! ' — and  I  flew  away." 

The  young  man  shook  his  bandage-covered  head ;  he 
seemed  deranged  by  the  recollection.  "  I  said  to  myself 
at  the  moment,  '  I  must  be  mad  !  ' 

"  It's  the  truth  of  things  that's  mad,"  said  the  zouave. 

With  his  eyes  shining  in  delirium,  the  narrator  sought 
to  express  and  convey  the  deep  disturbing  idea  that 
was  besieging  him,  that  he  was  struggling  against. 

"  Now  think  of  it !  "  he  said.  "  Fancy  those  two 
identical  crowds  yelling  things  that  are  identical  and 
yet  opposite,  these  identical  enemy  cries  !  What  must 
the  good  God  think  about  it  all  ?  I  know  well  enough 


THE   REFUGE  283 

that    He   knows  everything,   but   even   if   He    knows 
everything,  He  won't  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"  Rot  !  "  cried  the  zouave. 

"  He  doesn't  care  a  damn  for  us,  don't  fret  yourself." 

"Anyway,  what  is  there  funny  about  it?  That 
doesn't  prevent  people  from  quarrelling  with  each 
other — and  don't  they  !  And  rifle-shots  speak  jolly 
well  the  same  language,  don't  they?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  aviator,  "  but  there's  only  one  God. 
It  isn't  the  departure  of  prayers  that  I  don't  under- 
stand; it's  their  arrival." 

The  conversation  drooped. 

"  There's  a  crowd  of  wounded  laid  out  in  there," 
the  man  with  the  dull  eyes  said  to  me,  "  and  I'm  wonder- 
ing all  ways  how  they  got  'em  down  here.  It  must 
have  been  a  terrible  job,  tumbling  them  in  here." 

Two  Colonials,  hard  and  lean,  supporting  each  other 
like  tipsy  men,  butted  into  us  and  recoiled,  looking  on 
the  ground  for  some  place  to  fall  on. 

"  Old  chap,  in  that  trench  I'm  telling  you  of,"  the 
hoarse  voice  of  one  was  relating,  "  we  were  three  days 
without  rations,  three  full  days  without  anything — 
anything.  Willy-nilly,  we  had  to  drink  our  own  water, 
and  no  help  for  it." 

The  other  explained  that  once  on  a  time  he  had 
cholera.  ."  Ah,  that's  a  dirty  business — fever,  vomiting, 
colics ;  old  man,  I  was  ill  with  that  lot  !  " 

"  And  then,  too,"  suddenly  growled  the  flying-man, 
still  fierce  to  pursue  the  answer  to  the  gigantic  conun- 
drum, "  what  is  this  God  thinking  of  to  let  everybody 
believe  like  that  that  He's  with  them?  Why  does  He 
let  us  all — all  of  us — shout  out  side  by  side,  like  idiots 
and  brutes,  '  God  is  with  us  ! ' — '  No,  not  at  all,  you're 
wrong ;  God  is  with  us  '  ?  " 

A  groan  arose  from  a  stretcher,  and  for  a  moment 
fluttered  lonely  in  the  silence  as  if  it  were  an  answer. 
****** 

Then,  "  I  don't  believe  in  God,"  said  a  pain-racked 
voice:  "I  know  He  doesn't  exist — because  of  the 


284  UNDER  FIRE 

suffering  there  is.  They  can  tell  us  all  the  clap-trap 
they  like,  and  trim  up  all  the  words  they  can  find  and 
all  they  can  make  up,  but  to  say  that  all  this  innocent 
suffering  could  come  from  a  perfect  God,  it's  damned 
skull-stuffing. " 

"  For  my  part,"  another  of  the  men  on  the  seat  goes 
on,  "I  don't  believe  in  God  because  of  the  cold.  I've 
seen  men  become  corpses  bit  by  bit,  just  simply  with 
cold.  If  there  was  a  God  of  goodness,  there  wouldn't 
be  any  cold.  You  can't  get  away  from  that." 

"  Before  you  can  believe  in  God,  you've  got  to  do 
away  with  everything  there  is.  So  we've  got  a  long 
way  to  go  !  " 

Several  mutilated  men,  without  seeing  each  other, 
combine  in  head-shakes  of  dissent.  "  You're  right," 
says  another,  "  you're  right." 

These  men  in  ruins,  vanquished  in  victory,  isolated 
and  scattered,  have  the  beginnings  of  a  revelation. 
There  come  moments  in  the  tragedy  of  these  events 
when  men  are  not  only  sincere,  but  truth-telling, 
moments  when  you  see  that  they  and  the  truth  are  face 
to  face. 

"  As  for  me,"  said  a  new  speaker,  "  if  I  don't  believe 

in  God,  it's "     A  fit  of  coughing  terribly  continued 

his  sentence. 

When  the  fit  passed  and  his  cheeks  were  purple  and 
wet  with  tears,  some  one  asked  him,  "  Where  are  you 
wounded  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  wounded;  I'm  ill." 

"  Oh,  I  see  !  "  they  said,  in  a  tone  which  meant 
"  You're  not  interesting." 

He  understood,  and  pleaded  the  cause  of  his  illness : 
"  I'm  done  in,  I  spit  blood.  I've  no  strength  left,  and 
it  doesn't  come  back,  you  know,  when  it  goes  away  like 
that." 

"  Ah,  ah  !  "  murmured  the  comrades — wavering,  but 
secretly  convinced  all  the  same  of  the  inferiority  of 
civilian  Bailments  to  wounds. 

In  resignation  he  lowered  his  head  and  repeated  to 


THE  REFUGE  285 

himself  very  quietly,  "  I  can't  walk  any  more ;  where 
would  you  have  me  go  ?  " 

###•*•*•* 

A  commotion  is  arising  for  some  unknown  reason  in 
the  horizontal  gulf  which  lengthens  as  it  contracts  from 
stretcher  to  stretcher  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  as  far 
as  the  pallid  peep  of  daylight,  in  this  confused  corridor 
where  the  poor  winking  flames  of  candles  redden  and 
seem  feverish,  and  winged  shadows  cast  themselves. 
The  odds  and  ends  of  heads  and  limbs  are  agitated, 
appeals  and  cries  arouse  each  other  and  increase  in 
number  like  invisible  ghosts.  The  prostrate  bodies 
undulate,  double  up,  and  turn  over. 

In  the  heart  of  this  den  of  captives,  debased  and 
punished  by  pain,  I  make  out  the  big  mass  of  a  hospital 
attendant  whose  heavy  shoulders  rise  and  fall  like  a 
knapsack  carried  crosswise,  and  whose  stentorian  voice 
reverberates  at  speed  through  the  cave.  f<  You've  been 
meddling  with  your  bandage  again,  you  son  of  a  lubber, 
you  varmint  !  "  he  thunders.  "  I'll  do  it  up  again  for 
you,  as  long  as  it's  you,  my  chick,  but  if  you  touch  it 
again,  you'll  see  what  I'll  do  to  you  !  " 

Behold  him  then  in  the  obscurity,  twisting  a  bandage 
round  the  cranium  of  a  very  little  man  who  is  almost 
upright,  who  has  bristling  hair  and  a  beard  which  puffs 
out  in  front.  With  dangling  arms,  he  submits  in 
silence.  But  the  attendant  abandons  him,  looks  on 

the  ground  and  exclaims  sonorously,  "  What  the ? 

Eh,  come  now,  my  friend,  are  you  cracked?  There's 
manners  for  you,  to  lie  down  on  the  top  of  a  patient  !  " 
And  his  capacious  hand  disengages  a  second  limp  body 
on  which  the  first  had  extended  himself  as  on  a  mat- 
tress ;  while  the  mannikin  with  the  bandaged  head 
alongside,  as  soon  as  he  is  let  alone,  puts  his  hands  to 
his  head  without  saying  a  word  and  tries  once  more  to 
remove  the  encircling  lint. 

There  is  an  uproar,  too,  among  some  shadow?  that 
are  visible  against  a  luminous  background;  they  seem 
to  be  wildly  agitated  in  the  gloom  of  the  crypt.  The 


286  UNDER  FIRE 

light  of  a  candle  shows  us  several  men  shaken  with 
their  efforts  to  hold  a  wounded  soldier  down  on  his 
stretcher.  It  is  a  man  whose  feet  are  gone.  At  the 
end  of  his  legs  are  terrible  bandages,  with  tourniquets 
to  restrain  the  hemorrhage.  His  stumps  have  bled 
into  the  linen  wrappings,  and  he  seems  to  wear  red 
breeches.  His  face  is  devilish,  shining  and  sullen,  and 
he  is  raving.  They  are  pressing  down  on  his  shoulders 
and  knees,  for  this  man  without  feet  would  fain  jump 
from  the  stretcher  and  go  away. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  he  rattles  in  breathless,  quavering 
rage.  His  voice  is  low,  with  sudden  sonorities,  like  a 
trumpet  that  one  tries  to  blow  too  softly.  "  By  God, 
let  me  go,  I  tell  you  !  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  stop 
here  ?  Allans,  let  me  be,  or  I'll  jump  over  you  on  my 
hands  !  " 

So  violently  he  contracts  and  extends  himself  that  he 
pulls  to  and  fro  those  who  are  trying  to  restrain  him 
by  their  gripping  weight,  and  I  can  see  the  zigzags  of 
the  candle  held  by  a  kneeling  man  whose  other  arm 
engirdles  the  mutilated  maniac,  who  shouts  so  fiercely 
that  he  wakes  up  the  sleepers  and  dispels  the  drowsi- 
ness of  the  rest.  On  all  sides  they  turn  towards  him; 
half  rising,  they  listen  to  the  incoherent  lamentations 
which  end  by  dying  in  the  dark.  At  the  same  moment, 
in  another  corner,  two  prostrate  wounded,  crucified  on 
the  ground,  so  curse  each  other  that  one  of  them  has 
to  be  removed  before  the  frantic  dialogue  is  broken  up, 

I  go  farther  away,  towards  the  point  where  the  light 
from  outside  comes  through  among  the  tangled  beams 
as  through  a  broken  grating,  and  stride  over  the  inter- 
minable stretchers  that  take  up  all  the  width  of  the 
underground  alley  whose  oppressive  confinement  chokes 
me.  The  human  forms  prone  on  the  stretchers  are 
now  hardly  stirring  under  the  Jack-o'-lanterns  of  the 
candles;  they  stagnate  in  their  rattling  breath  and 
heavy  groans. 

On  the  edge  of  a  stretcher  a  man  is  sitting,  leaning 
against  the  wall.  His  clothes  are  torn  apart,  and  in 


THE  REFUGE  287 

the  middle  of  their  darkness  appears  the  white,  emaciated 
breast  of  a  martyr.  His  head  is  bent  quite  back  and 
veiled  in  shadow,  but  I  can  see  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

The  daylight  that  is  trickling  through  at  the  end, 
drop  by  drop,  comes  in  by  an  earth-fall.  Several 
shells,  falling  on  the  same  spot,  have  broken  through 
the  heavy  earthen  roof  of  the  Refuge. 

Here,  some  pale  reflections  are  cast  on  the  blue  of 
the  greatcoats,  on  the  shoulders  and  along  the  folds. 
Almost  paralysed  by  the  darkness  and  their  own  weak- 
ness, a  group  of  men  is  pressing  towards  the  gap,  like 
dead  men  half  awaking,  to  taste  a  little  of  the  pallid 
air  and  detach  themselves  from  the  sepulchre.  This 
corner  at  the  extremity  of  the  gloom  offers  itself  as  a 
way  of  escape,  an  oasis  where  one  may  stand  upright, 
where  one  is  lightly,  angelically  touched  by  the  light  of 
heaven. 

"  There  were  some  chaps  there  that  were  blown  to 
bits  when  the  shells  burst,"  said  some  one  to  me  who 
was  waiting  there  in  the  sickly  ray  of  entombed  light. 
"  You  talk  about  a  mess  !  Look,  there's  the  padre 
hooking  down  what  was  blown  up." 

The  huge  Red  Cross  sergeant,  in  a  hunter's  chestnut 
waistcoat  which  gives  him  the  chest  of  a  gorilla,  is 
detaching  the  pendent  entrails  twisted  among  the 
beams  of  the  shattered  woodwork.  For  the  purpose  he 
is  using  a  rifle  with  fixed  bayonet,  since  he  could  not 
find  a  stick  long  enough ;  and  the  heavy  giant,  bald, 
bearded  and  asthmatic,  wields  the  weapon  awkwardly. 
He  has  a  mild  face,  meek  and  unhappy,  and  while  he 
tries  to  catch  the  remains  of  intestines  in  the  corners, 
he  mutters  a  string  of  "  Oh's  !  "  like  sighs.  His  eyes 
are  masked  by  blue  glasses ;  his  breathing  is  noisy. 
The  top  of  his  head  is  of  puny  dimensions,  and  the 
huge  thickness  of  his  neck  has  a  conical  shape.  To  see 
him  thus  pricking  and  unhanging  from  the  air  strips 
of  viscera  and  rags  of  flesh,  you  could  take  him  for  a 
butcher  at  some  fiendish  task. 

But  I  let  myself  fall  in  a  corner  with  my  eyes  half 


288  UNDER  FIRE 

closed,  seeing  hardly  anything  of  the  spectacle  that 
lies  and  palpitates  and  falls  around  me.  Indistinctly  I 
gather  some  fragments  of  sentences — still  the  horrible 
monotony  of  the  story  of  wounds  :  "  Nom  de  Dieu ! 
In  that  place  I  should  think  the  bullets  were  touching 
each  other." — "  His  head  was  bored  through  from  one 
temple  to  the  other.  You  could  have  passed  a  thread 
through." — "  Those  beggars  were  an  hour  before  they 
lifted  their  fire  and  stopped  peppering  us."  Nearer  to 
me  some  one  gabbles  at  the  end  of  his  story,  "  When 
I'm  sleeping  I  dream  that  I'm  killing  him  over  again  !  " 

Other  memories  are  called  up  and  buzz  about  among 
the  buried  wounded ;  it  is  like  the  purring  of  countless 
gear-wheels  in  a  machine  that  turns  and  turns.  And 
I  hear  afar  him  who  repeats  from  his  seat,  "  What's 
the  use  of  worrying  ?  "  in  all  possible  tones,  com- 
manding or  pitiful,  sometimes  like  a  prophet  and  anon 
like  one  shipwrecked;  he  metrifies  with  his  cry  the 
chorus  of  choking  and  plaintive  voices  that  try  so 
terribly  to  extol  their  suffering. 

Some  one  comes  forward,  blindly  feeling  the  wall 
with  his  stick,  and  reaches  me.  It  is  Farfadet  !  I  call 
him,  and  he  turns  nearly  towards  me  to  tell  me  that 
one  eye  is  gone,  and  the  other  is  bandaged  as  well.  I 
give  him  my  place,  take  him  by  the  shoulders  and 
make  him  sit  down.  He  submits,  and  seated  at  the 
base  of  the  wall  waits  patiently,  with  the  resignation  of 
his  clerkly  calling,  as  if  in  a  waiting-room. 

I  come  to  anchor  a  little  farther  away,  in  an  empty 
space  where  two  prostrate  men  are  talking  to  each 
other  in  low  voices ;  they  are  so  near  to  me  that  I  hear 
them  without  listening.  They  are  two  soldiers  of  the 
Foreign  Legion ;  their  helmets  and  greatcoats  are  dark 
yellow. 

"  It's  not  worth  while  to  make-believe  about  it," 
says  one  of  them  banteringly.  "  I'm  staying  here  this 
time.  It's  finished — my  bowels  are  shot  through.  If 
I  were  in  a  hospital,  in  a  town,  they'd  operate  on  me  in 
time,  and  it  might  stick  up  again.  But  here !  It  was 


THE   REFUGE  289 

yesterday  I  got  it.  We're  two  or  three  hours  from  the 
Bethune  road,  aren't  we  ?  And  how  many  hours,  think 
you,  from  the  road  to  an  ambulance  where  they  can 
operate  ?  And  then,  when  are  they  going  to  pick  us 
up?  It's  nobody's  fault,  I  dare  say;  but  you've  got 
to  look  facts  in  the  face.  Oh,  I  know  it  isn't  going  to 
be  any  worse  from  now  than  it  is,  but  it  can't  be  long, 
seeing  I've  a  hole  all  the  way  through  my  parcel  of 
guts.  You,  your  foot'll  get  all  right,  or  they'll  put  you 
another  one  on.  But  I'm  going  to  die." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  other,  convinced  by  the  reasoning 
of  his  neighbour.  The  latter  goes  on — 

"  Listen,  Dominique.  You've  led  a  bad  life.  You 
cribbed  things,  and  you  were  quarrelsome  when  drunk. 
You've  dirtied  your  ticket  in  the  police  register, 
properly." 

"  I  can't  say  it  isn't  true,  because  it  is,"  says  the 
other ;  "  but  what  have  you  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  You'll  lead  a  bad  life  again  after  the  war,  inevitably ; 
and  then  you'll  have  bother  about  that  affair  of  the 
cooper." 

The  other  becomes  fierce  and  aggressive.  "  What 
the  hell's  it  to  do  with  you  ?  Shut  your  jaw  !  " 

"  As  for  me,  I've  no  more  family  than  you  have. 
I've  nobody,  except  Louise — and  she  isn't  a  relation  of 
mine,  seeing  we're  not  married.  And  there  are  no 
convictions  against  me,  beyond  a  few  little  military 
jobs.  There's  nothing  on  my  name." 

"  Well,  what  about  it  ?     /  don't  care  a  damn." 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  Take  my  name.  Take  it — 
I  give  it  you ;  as  long  as  neither  of  us  has  any  family." 

"  Your  name  ?  " 

"Yes;  you'll  call  yourself  Leonard  Carlotti,  that's 
all.  Tisn't  a  big  job.  What  harm  can  it  do  you? 
Straight  off,  you've  no  more  convictions.  They  won't 
hunt  you  out,  and  you  can  be  as  happy  as  I  should  have 
been  if  this  bullet  hadn't  gone  through  my  magazine." 

"Oh    Christ!"    said   the    other,    "you'd   do    that? 
You'd—that—well,  old  chap,  that  beats  all !  " 
u 


290  UNDER  FIRE 

"  Take  it.  It's  there  in  my  pocket-book  in  my 
greatcoat.  Go  on,  take  it,  and  hand  yours  over  to  me — 
so  that  I  can  carry  it  all  away  with  me.  You'll  be  able 
to  live  where  you  like,  except  where  I  come  from,  where 
I'm  known  a  bit,  at  Longueville  in  Tunis.  You'll 
remember  that?  And  anyway,  it's  written  down. 
You  must  read  it,  the  pocket-book.  I  shan't  blab  to 
anybody.  To  bring  the  trick  off  properly,  mum's  the 
word,  absolutely." 

He  ponders  a  moment,  and  then  says  with  a  shiver, 
"  I'll  p'raps  tell  Louise,  so's  she'll  find  I've  done  the 
right  thing,  and  think  the  better  of  rne,  when  I  write 
to  her  to  say  good-bye." 

But  he  thinks  better  of  it,  and  shakes  his  head  with 
an  heroic  effort.  "  No — I  shan't  let  on,  even  to  her. 
She's  her,  of  course,  but  women  are  such  chatterers  !  " 

The  other  man  looks  at  him,  and  repeats,  "  Ah,  nom 
de  Dieu  ! " 

Without  being  noticed  by  the  two  men  I  leave  the 
drama  narrowly  developing  in  this  lamentable  comer, 
and  its  jostling  and  traffic  and  hubbub. 

Now  I  touch  the  composed  and  convalescent  chat  of 
two  poor  wretches — 

"  Ah,  my  boy,  the  affection  he  had  for  that  vine  of 
his  !  You  couldn't  find  anything  wrong  among  the 
branches  of  it " 

"  That  little  nipper,  that  wee  little  kid,  when  I  went 
out  with  him,  holding  his  tiny  fist,  it  felt  as  if  I'd  got 
hold  of  the  little  warm  neck  of  a  swallow,  you  know." 

And  alongside  this  sentimental  avowal,  here  is  the 
passing  revelation  of  another  mind :  "  Don't  I  know  the 
547th  !  Rather  !  Listen,  it's  a  funny  regiment.  They've 
got  a  poilu  in  it  who's  called  Petitjean,  another  called 
Petitpierre,  and  another  called  Petitlouis.  Old  man,  it's 
as  I'm  telling  you ;  that's  the  kind  of  regiment  it  is.'1 

As  I  begin  to  pick  out  a  way  with  a  view  to  leaving 
the  cavern,  there  is  a  great  noise  down  yonder  of  a,  fall 
and  a  chorus  of  exclamations.  It  is  the  hospital  ser- 
geant who  has  fallen.  Through  the  breach  that  he  was 


THE  REFUGE  291 

clearing  of  its  soft  and  bloody  relics,  a  bullet  has  taken 
him  in  the  throat,  and  he  is  spread  out  full  length  on 
the  ground.  His  great  bewildered  eyes  are  rolling  and 
his  breath  comes  foaming.  His  mouth  and  the  lower 
part  of  his  face  are  quickly  covered  with  a  cloud  of  rosy 
bubbles.  They  place  his  head  on  a  bag  of  bandages, 
and  the  bag  is  instantly  soaked  with  blood.  An 
attendant  cries  that  the  packets  of  lint  will  be  spoiled, 
and  they  are  needed.  Something  else  is  sought  on 
which  to  put  the  head  that  ceaselessly  makes  a  light 
and  discoloured  froth.  Only  a  loaf  can  be  found,  and 
it  is  slid  under  the  spongy  hair. 

While  they  hold  the  sergeant's  hand  and  question 
him,  he  only  slavers  new  heaps  of  bubbles,  and  we  see 
his  great  black-bearded  head  across  this  rosy  cloud. 
Laid  out  like  that,  he  might  be  a  deep-breathing  marine 
monster,  and  the  transparent  red  foam  gathers  and 
creeps  up  to  his  great  hazy  eyes,  no  longer  spectacled. 

Then  his  throat  rattles.  It  is  a  childish  rattle,  and 
he  dies  moving  his  head  to  right  and  to  left  as  though 
he  were  trying  very  gently  to  say  "No." 

Looking  on  the  enormous  inert  mass,  I  reflect  that 
he  was  a  good  man.  He  had  an  innocent  and  impres- 
sionable heart.  How  I  reproach  myself  that  I  some- 
times abused  him  for  the  ingenuous  narrowness  of  his 
views,  and  for  a  certain  clerical  impertinence  that  he 
always  had  !  And  how  glad  I  am  in  this  distressing 
scene — yes,  happy  enough  to  tremble  with  joy — that  I 
restrained  myself  from  an  angry  protest  when  I  found 
him  stealthily  reading  a  letter  I  was  writing,  a  protest 
that  would  unjustly  have  wounded  him  !  I  remember 
the  time  when  he  exasperated  me  so  much  by  his  dis- 
sertation on  France  and  the  Virgin  Mary.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  me  that  he  could  utter  those  thoughts 
sincerely.  Why  should  he  not  have  been  sincere  ? 
Has  he  not  been  really  killed  to-day?  I  remember, 
too,  certain  deeds  of  devotion,  the  kindly  patience  of 
the  great  man,  exiled  in  war  as  in  life — and  the  rest 
does  not  matter.  His  ideas  themselves  are  only  trivial 


292  UNDER  FIRE 

details  compared  with  his  heart — which  is  there  on  the 
ground  in  ruins  in  this  corner  of  Hell.  With  what 
intensity  I  lamented  this  man  who  was  so  far  asunder 
from  me  in  everything  ! 

Then  fell  the  thunder  on  us  !  We  were  thrown 
violently  on  each  other  by  the  frightful  shaking  of  the 
ground  and  the  walls.  It  was  as  if  the  overhanging 
earth  had  burst  and  hurled  itself  down.  Part  of  the 
armour-plate  of  beams  collapsed,  enlarging  the  hole  that 
already  pierced  the  cavern.  Another  shock — another 
pulverised  span  fell  in  roaring  destruction.  The 
corpse  of  the  great  Red  Cross  sergeant  went  rolling 
against  the  wall  like  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  All  the 
timber  in  the  long  framework  of  the  cave,  those  heavy 
black  vertebrae,  cracked  with  an  ear-splitting  noise, 
and  all  the  prisoners  in  the  dungeon  shouted  together 
in  horror. 

Blow  after  blow,  the  explosions  resound  and  drive 
us  in  all  directions  as  the  bombardment  mangles  and 
devours  the  sanctuary  of  pierced  and  diminished  refuge. 
As  the  hissing  flight  of  shells  hammers  and  crushes  the 
gaping  end  of  the  cave  with  its  thunderbolts,  daylight 
streams  in  through  the  clefts.  More  sharply  now,  and 
more  unnaturally,  one  sees  the  flushed  faces  and  those 
pallid  with  death,  the  eyes  which  fade  in  agony  or  burn 
with  fever,  the  patched-up  white-bound  bodies,  the 
monstrous  bandages.  All  that  was  hidden  rises  again 
into  daylight.  Haggard,  blinking  and  distorted,  in 
face  of  the  flood  of  iron  and  embers  that  the  hurricanes 
of  light  bring  with  them,  the  wounded  arise  and  scatter 
and  try  to  take  flight.  All  the  terror-struck  inhabitants 
roll  about  in  compact  masses  across  the  miserable  tunnel, 
as  if  in  the  pitching  hold  of  a  great  ship  that  strikes  the 
rocks. 

The  aviator,  as  upright  as  he  can  get  and  with  his 
neck  oli  the  ceiling,  waves  his  arms  and  appeals  to  God, 
asks  Him  what  He  is  called,  what  is  His  real  name. 
Overthrown  by  the  blast  and  cast  upon  the  others,  I 
see  him  who,  bare  of  breast  and  his  clothes  gaping  like 


THE  REFUGE  293 

a  wound,  reveals  the  heart  of  a  Christ.  The  greatcoat 
of  the  man  who  still  monotonously  repeats,  "  What's 
the  use  of  worrying?"  now  shows  itself  all  green, 
bright  green,  the  effect  of  the  picric  acid  no  doubt  re- 
leased by  the  explosion  that  has  staggered  his  brain. 
Others — the  rest,  indeed — helpless  and  maimed,  move 
and  creep  and  cringe,  worm  themselves  into  the  corners. 
They  are  like  moles,  poor,  defenceless  beasts,  hunted  by 
the  hellish  hounds  of  the  guns. 

The  bombardment  slackens,  and  ends  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke  that  still  echoes  the  crashes,  in  a  quivering  and 
burning  after-damp.  I  pass  out  through  the  breach ; 
and  still  surrounded  and  entwined  in  the  clamour  of 
despair,  I  arrive  under  the  free  sky,  in  the  soft  earth 
where  mingled  planks  and  legs  are  sunk.  I  catch 
myself  on  some  wreckage ;  it  is  the  embankment  of 
the  trench.  At  the  moment  when  I  plunge  into  the 
communication  trenches  they  are  visible  a  long  way ; 
they  are  still  gloomily  stirring,  still  filled  by  the  crowd 
that  overflows  from  the  trenches  and  flows  without  end 
towards  the  refuges.  For  whole  days,  for  whole  nights, 
you  will  see  the  long  rolling  streams  of  men  plucked 
from  the  fields  of  battle,  from  the  plain  over  there  that 
also  has  feelings  of  its  own,  though  it  bleeds  and  rots 
without  end. 


XXII 

GOING  ABOUT 

WE  have  been  along  the  Boulevard  de  la  Republique 
and  then  the  Avenue  Gambetta,  and  now  we  are  de- 
bouching into  the  Place  du  Commerce.  The  nails  in 
our  polished  boots  ring  on  the  pavements  of  the  capital. 
It  is  fine  weather,  and  the  shining  sky  glistens  and 
flashes  as  if  we  saw  it  through  the  frames  of  a  green- 
house ;  it  sets  a-sparkle  all  the  shop-fronts  in  the  square. 
The  skirts  of  our  well-brushed  greatcoats  have  been  let 
down,  and  as  they  are  usually  fastened  back,  you  can 
see  two  squares  on  the  floating  lappets  where  the  cloth 
is  bluer. 

Our  sauntering  party  halts  and  hesitates  for  a  moment 
in  front  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Sous-Prefecture,  also  called 
the  Grand-Cafe. 

"  We  have  the  right  to  go  in  I"  says  Volpatte. 

"  Too  many  officers  in  there,"  replies  Blaire,  who 
has  lifted  his  chin  over  the  guipure  curtains  in  which 
the  establishment  is  dressed  up  and  risked  a  glance 
through  the  window  between  its  golden  letters. 

"  Besides,"  says  Paradis,  "  we  haven't  seen  enough 

yet." 

We  resume  our  walk  and,  simple  soldiers  that  we 
are,  we  survey  the  sumptuous  shops  that  encircle  the 
Place  du  Commerce ;  the  drapers,  the  stationers,  the 
chemists,  and — like  a  General's  decorated  uniform — 
the  display  of  the  jeweller.  We  have  put  forth  our 
smiles  like  ornaments,  for  we  are  exempt  from  all  duty 
until  the  evening,  we  are  free,  we  are  masters  of  our 
own  time.  Our  steps  are  gentle  and  sedate  ;  our  empty 
and  swinging  hands  are  also  promenading,  to  and  fro. 

294 


GOING  ABOUT  295 

"  No  doubt  about  it,  you  get  some  good  out  of  this 
rest,"  remarks  Paradis. 

It  is  an  abundantly  impressive  city  which  expands 
before  our  steps.  One  is  in  touch  with  life,  with  the 
life  of  the  people,  the  life  of  the  Rear,  the  normal  life. 
How  we  used  to  think,  down  yonder,  that  we  should 
never  get  here  ! 

We  see  gentlemen,  ladies,  English  officers,  aviators 
— recognisable  afar  by  their  slim  elegance  and  their 
decorations — soldiers  who  are  parading  their  scraped 
clothes  and  scrubbed  skins  and  the  solitary  ornament 
of  their  engraved  identity  discs,  flashing  in  the  sun- 
shine on  their  greatcoats ;  and  these  last  risk  them- 
selves carefully  in  the  beautiful  scene  that  is  clear  of 
all  nightmares. 

We  make  exclamations  as  they  do  who  come  from 
afar  :  "  Talk  about  a  crowd  !  "  says  Tirette  in  wonder. 
"  Ah,  it's  a  wealthy  town  !  "  says  Blaire. 

A  work-girl  passes  and  looks  at  us.  Volpatte  gives  me 
a  jog  with  his  elbow  and  swallows  her  with  his  eyes,  then 
points  out  to  me  two  other  women  farther  away  who  are 
coming  up,  and  with  beaming  eye  he  certifies  that  the 
town  is  rich  in  femininity — "  Old  man,  they  are  plump  !  " 

A  moment  ago  Paradis  had  a  certain  timidity  to 
overcome  before  he  could  approach  a  cluster  of  cakes 
of  luxurious  lodging,  and  touch  and  eat  them ;  and 
every  minute  we  are  obliged  to  halt  in  the  middle  of 
the  pavement  and  wait  for  Blaire,  who  is  attracted  and 
detained  by  the  displays  of  fancy  jumpers  and  caps, 
neck-ties  in  pale  blue  drill,  slippers  as  red  and  shiny 
as  mahogany.  Blaire  has  reached  the  final  height  of 
his  transformation.  He  who  held  the  record  for  negli- 
gence and  grime  is  certainly  the  best  groomed  of  us  all, 
especially  since  the  further  complication  of  his  ivories, 
which  were  broken  in  the  attack  and  had  to  be  re- 
made. He  affects  an  off-hand  demeanour.  "  He  looks 
young  and  youthful,"  says  Marthereau. 

We  find  ourselves  suddenly  face  to  face  with  a  tooth- 
less creature  who  smiles  to  the  depth  of  her  throat. 


296  UNDER   FIRE 

Some  black  hair  bristles  round  her  hat.  Her  big,  un- 
pleasant features,  riddled  with  pock-marks,  recalls  the 
ill-painted  faces  that  one  sees  on  the  coarse  canvas  of 
a  travelling  show.  "  She's  beautiful,"  says  Volpatte. 
Marthereau,  at  whom  she  smiled,  is  dumb  with  shock. 

Thus  do  the  poilus  converse  who  are  suddenly  placed 
under  the  spell  of  a  town.  More  and  more  they  rejoice 
in  the  beautiful  scene,  so  neat  and  incredibly  clean. 
They  resume  possession  of  life  tranquil  and  peaceful, 
of  that  conception  of  comfort  and  even  of  happiness  for 
which  in  the  main  houses  were  built. 

"  We  should  easily  get  used  to  it  again,  you  know. 
old  man,  after  all !  " 

Meanwhile  a  crowd  is  gathered  around  an  outfitter's 
shop-window  where  the  proprietor  has  contrived,  with 
the  aid  of  mannikins  in  wood  and  wax,  a  ridiculous 
tableau.  On  a  groundwork  of  little  pebbles  like  those 
in  an  aquarium,  there  is  a  kneeling  German,  in  a  suit 
so  new  that  the  creases  are  definite,  and  punctuated 
with  an  Iron  Cross  in  cardboard.  He  holds  up  his  two 
wooden  pink  hands  to  a  French  officer,  whose  curly  wig 
makes  a  cushion  for  a  juvenile  cap,  who  has  bulging, 
crimson  cheeks,  and  whose  infantile  eye  of  adamant 
looks  somewhere  else.  Beside  the  two  personages  lies 
a  rifle  borrowed  from  the  odd  trophies  of  a  box  of 
toys.  A  card  gives  the  title  of  the  animated  group — 
"  Kamarad  !  " 

"  Ah,  damn  it,  look  !  " 

We  shrug  our  shoulders  at  sight  of  the  puerile  con- 
trivance, the  only  thing  here  that  recalls  to  us  the 
gigantic  war  raging  somewhere  under  the  sky.  We 
begin  to  laugh  bitterly,  offended  and  even  wounded  to 
the  quick  in  our  new  impressions.  Tirette  collects 
himself,  and  some  abusive  sarcasm  rises  to  his  lips ; 
but  the  protest  lingers  and  is  mute  by  reason  of  our 
total  transportation,  the  amazement  of  being  somewhere 
else. 

Our  group  is  then  espied  by  a  very  stylish  and  rust- 
ling lady,  radiant  in  violet  and  black  silk  and  enveloped 


GOING  ABOUT  297 

in  perfumes.  She  puts  out  her  little  gloved  hand  and 
touches  Volpatte's  sleeve  and  then  Blaire's  shoulder, 
and  they  instantly  halt,  gorgonised  by  this  direct 
contact  with  the  fairy-like  being. 

"  Tell  me,  messieurs,  you  who  are  real  soldiers  from  the 
front,  you  have  seen  that  in  the  trenches,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  Er — yes — yes "  reply  the  two  poor  fellows, 

horribly  frightened  and  gloriously  gratified. 

"Ah!"  the  crowd  murmurs,  "did  you  hear?  And 
they've  been  there,  they  have  !  " 

When  we  find  ourselves  alone  again  on  the  flagged 
perfection  of  the  pavement,  Volpatte  and  Blaire  look 
at  each  other  and  shake  their  heads. 

"  After  all,"  says  Volpatte,  "  it  is  pretty  much  like 
that,  you  know  !  " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course  !  " 

And  these  were  their  first  words  of  false  swearing 

that  day. 

****** 

We  go  into  the  Cafe  de  1' Industrie  et  des  Fleurs.  A 
roadway  of  matting  clothes  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
Painted  all  the  way  along  the  walls,  all  the  way  up  the 
square  pillars  that  support  the  roof,  and  on  the  front 
of  the  counter,  there  is  purple  convolvulus  among  great 
scarlet  poppies  and  roses  like  red  cabbages. 

"  No  doubt  about  it,  we've  got  good  taste  in  France," 
says  Tirette. 

"  The  chap  that  did  all  that  had  a  cartload  of  patience," 
Blaire  declares  as  he  looks  at  the  rainbow  embellish- 
ments. 

"  In  these  places,"  Volpatte  adds,  "  the  pleasure  of 
drinking  isn't  the  only  one." 

Paradis  informs  us  that  he  knows  all  about  cafes. 
On  Sundays  formerly,  he  frequented  cafes  as  beautiful 
as  this  one  and  even  more  beautiful.  Only,  he  explains, 
that  was  a  long  time  ago,  and  he  has  lost  the  flavour 
that  they've  got.  He  indicates  a  little  enamelled  wash- 
hand  basin  hanging  on  the  wall  and  decorated  with 
flowers  :  "  There's  where  one  can  wash  his  hands." 


298  UNDER  FIRE 

We  steer  politely  towards  the  basin.  Volpatte  signs  to 
Paradis  to  turn  the  tap,  and  says,  "  Set  the  waterworks 
going  !  " 

Then  all  six  of  us  enter  the  saloon,  whose  circum- 
ference is  already  adorned  with  customers,  and  install 
ourselves  at  a  table. 

"  We'll  have  six  currant- vermouths,  shall  we?  " 

"  We  could  very  easily  get  used  to  it  again,  after  all," 
they  repeat. 

Some  civilians  leave  their  places  and  come  near  us. 
They  whisper,  "  They've  all  got  the  Croix  de  Guerre, 
Adolphe,  you  see —  — "  Those  are  real  poilus  !  " 

Our  comrades  overhear,  and  now  they  only  talk 
among  themselves  abstractedly,  with  their  ears  else- 
where, and  an  unconscious  air  of  importance  appears. 

A  moment  later,  the  man  and  woman  from  whom 
the  remarks  proceeded  lean  towards  us  with  their 
elbows  on  the  white  marble  and  question  us  :  "  Life 
in  the  trenches,  it's  very  rough,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Er — yes — well,  of  course,  it  isn't  always  pleasant." 

"  What  splendid  physical  and  moral  endurance  you 
have  !  In  the  end  you  get  used  to  the  life,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,  one  gets  used  to  it — one  gets 
used  to  it  all  right " 

"  All  the  same,  it's  a  terrible  existence — and  the 
suffering  !  "  murmurs  the  lady,  turning  over  the  leaves 
of  an  illustrated  paper  which  displays  gloomy  pictures 
of  destruction.  "  They  ought  not  to  publish  these 
things,  Adolphe,  about  the  dirt  and  the  vermin  and  the 
fatigues  !  Brave  as  you  are,  you  must  be  unhappy?  " 

Volpatte,  to  whom  she  speaks,  blushes.  He  is 
ashamed  of  the  misery  whence  he  comes,  whither  he 
must  return.  He  lowers  his  head  and  lies,  perhaps 
without  realising  the  extent  of  his  mendacity:  "No, 
after  all,  we're  not  unhappy,  it  isn't  so  terrible  as  all 
that  !  " 

The  lady  is  of  the  same  opinion.  "  I  know,"  she 
says,  "  there  are  compensations  !  How  superb  a  charge 
must  be,  eh?  All  those  masses  of  men  advancing  like 
they  do  in  a  holiday  procession,  and  the  trumpets 


GOING  ABOUT  299 

playing  a  rousing  air  in  the  fields  !  And  the  dear  little 
soldiers  that  can't  be  held  back  and  shouting,  '  Vive 
la  France  I '  and  even  laughing  as  they  die  !  Ah  !  we 
others,  we're  not  in  honour's  way  like  you  are.  My 
husband  is  a  clerk  at  the  Prefecture,  and  just  now  he's 
got  a  holiday  to  treat  his  rheumatism." 

"  I  should  very  much  have  liked  to  be  a  soldier," 
said  the  gentleman,  "  but  I've  no  luck.  The  head  of 
my  office  can't  get  on  without  me." 

People  go  and  come,  elbowing  and  disappearing 
behind  each  other.  The  waiters  worm  their  way 
through  with  their  fragile  and  sparkling  burdens — 
green,  red  or  bright  yellow,  with  a  white  border.  The 
grating  of  feet  on  the  sanded  floor  mingles  with  the 
exclamations  of  the  regular  customers  as  they  recognise 
each  other,  some  standing,  others  leaning  on  their 
elbows,  amid  the  sound  of  glasses  and  dominoes  pushed 
along  the  tables.  In  the  background,  around  the 
seductive  shock  of  ivory  balls,  a  crowding  circle  of 
spectators  emits  classical  pleasantries. 

"  Every  man  to  his  trade,  mon  brave,"  says  a  man 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table  whose  face  is  adorned 
with  powerful  colours,  addressing  Tirette  directly ;  "  you 
are  heroes.  On  our  side,  we  are  working  in  the  economic 
life  of  the  country.  It  is  a  struggle  like  yours.  I  am 
useful — I  don't  say  more  useful  than  you,  but  equally  so." 

And  I  see  Tirette  through  the  cigar-smoke  making 
round  eyes,  and  in  the  hubbub  I  can  hardly  hear  the 
reply  of  his  humble  and  dumbfounded  voice — Tirette* 
the  funny  man  of  the  squad  ! — "  Yes,  that's  true ; 
every  man  to  his  trade." 

Furtively  we  stole  away. 

****** 

We  are  almost  silent  as  we  leave  the  Caf6  des  Fleurs. 
It  seems  as  if  we  no  longer  know  how  to  talk.  Some- 
thing like  discontent  irritates  my  comrades  and  knits 
their  brows.  They  look  as  if  they  are  becoming  aware 
that  they  have  not  done  their  duty  at  an  important 
juncture. 

"  Fine  lot  of  gibberish  they've  talked  to  us,  the  beasts ! " 


3oo  UNDER  FIRE 

Tirette  growls  at  last  with  a  rancour  that  gathers  strength 
the  more  we  unite  and  collect  ourselves  again. 

"  We  ought  to  have  got  beastly  drunk  to-day  !  " 
replies  Paradis  brutally. 

We  walk  without  a  word  spoken.  Then,  after  a 
time,  "  They're  a  lot  of  idiots,  filthy  idiots,"  Tirette  goes 
on ;  "  they  tried  to  cod  us,  but  I'm  not  on ;  if  I  see 
them  again,"  he  says,  with  a  crescendo  of  anger,  "  I 
shall  know  what  to  say  to  them  !  " 

"  We  shan't  see  them  again,"  says  Blaire. 

"  In  eight  days  from  now,  p'raps  we  shall  be  laid 
out,"  says  Volpatte. 

In  the  approaches  to  the  square  we  nin  into  a  mob 
of  people  flowing  out  from  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and  from 
another  big  public  building  which  displays  the  columns 
of  a  temple  supporting  a  pediment.  Offices  are  closing, 
and  pouring  forth  civilians  of  all  sorts  and  all  ages,  and 
military  men  both  young  and  old,  who  seem  at  a  distance 
to  be  dressed  pretty  much  like  us;  but  when  nearer 
they  stand  revealed  as  the  shirkers  and  deserters  of  the 
war,  in  spite  of  being  disguised  as  soldiers,  in  spite  of 
their  brisques.1 

Women  and  children  are  waiting  for  them,  in  pretty 
and  happy  clusters.  The  commercial  people  are  shut- 
ting up  their  shops  with  complacent  content  and  a 
smile  for  both  the  day  ended  and  for  the  morrow,  elated 
by  the  lively  and  constant  thrills  of  profits  increased, 
by  the  growing  jingle  of  the  cash-box.  They  have  stayed 
behind  in  the  heart  of  their  own  firesides ;  they  have 
only  to  stoop  to  caress  their  children.  We  see  them 
beaming  in  the  first  starlights  of  the  street,  all  these 
rich  folk  who  are  becoming  richer,  all  these  tranquil 
people  whose  tranquillity  increases  every  day,  people 
who  are  full,  you  feel,  and  in  spite  of  all,  of  an  uncori- 
fessable  prayer.  They  all  go  slowly,  by  grace  of  the 
fine  evening,  and  settle  themselves  in  perfected  homes, 
or  in  cafes  where  they  are  waited  upon.  Couples  are 
forming,  too,  young  women  and  young  men,  civilians 
or  soldiers,  with  some  badge  of  their  preservation  em- 
1  See  p.  117. 


GOING  ABOUT  301 

broidered  on  their  collars.  They  make  haste  into  the 
shadows  of  security  where  the  others  go,  where  the 
dawn  of  lighted  rooms  awaits  them ;  they  hurry  towards 
the  night  of  rest  and  caresses. 

And  as  we  pass  quite  close  to  a  ground-floor  window 
which  is  half  open,  we  see  the  breeze  gently  inflate  the 
lace  curtain  and  lend  it  the  light  and  delicious  form  of 
lingerie — and  the  advancing  throng  drives  us  back,  poor 
strangers  that  we  are  ! 

We  wander  along  the  pavement,  all  through  the 
twilight  that  begins  to  glow  with  gold — for  in  towns 
Night  adorns  herself  with  jewels.  The  sight  of  this 
world  has  revealed  a  great  truth  to  us  at  last,  nor  could 
we  avoid  it  :  a  Difference  which  becomes  evident  be- 
tween human  beings,  a  Difference  far  deeper  than  that 
of  nations  and  with  defensive  trenches  more  impregnable  ; 
the  clean-cut  and  truly  unpardonable  division  that  there 
is  in  a  country's  inhabitants  between  those  who  gain 
and  those  who  grieve,  those  who  are  required  to  sacrifice 
all,  all,  to  give  their  numbers  and  strength  and  suffering 
to  the  last  limit,  those  upon  whom  the  others  walk  and 
advance,  smile  and  succeed. 

Some  items  of  mourning  attire  make  blots  in  the 
crowd  and  have  their  message  for  us,  but  the  rest  is  of 
merriment,  not  mourning. 

"  It  isn't  one  single  country,  that's  not  possible," 
suddenly  says  Volpatte  with  singular  precision,  "  there 
are  two.  We're  divided  into  two  foreign  countries.  The 
Front,  over  there,  where  there  are  too  many  unhappy, 
and  the  Rear,  here,  where  there  are  too  many  happy." 

"  How  can  you  help  it  ?  It  serves  its  end — it's  the 
background — but  afterwards " 

"  Yes,  I  know;  but  all  the  same,  all  the  same,  there 
are  too  many  of  them,  and  they're  too  happy,  and 
they're  always  the  same  ones,  and  there's  no  reason " 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  "  says  Tirette. 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  adds  Blaire,  still  more  simply. 

"  In  eight  days  from  now  p'raps  we  shall  have  snuffed 
it ! "  Volpatte  is  content  to  repeat  as  we  go  away  with 
lowered  heads. 


XXIII 

THE   FATIGUE-PARTY 

EVENING  is  falling  upon  the  trench.  All  through 
the  day  it  has  been  drawing  near,  invisible  as  fate, 
and  now  it  encroaches  on  the  banks  of  the  long  ditches 
like  the  lips  of  a  wound  infinitely  great. 

We  have  talked,  eaten,  slept,  and  written  in  the 
bottom  of  the  trench  since  the  morning.  Now  that 
evening  is  here,  an  eddying  springs  up  in  the  boundless 
crevice ;  it  stirs  and  unifies  the  torpid  disorder  of  the 
scattered  men.  It  is  the  hour  when  we  arise  and  work. 

Volpatte  and  Tirette  approach  each  other.  "  Another 
day  gone  by,  another  like  the  rest  of  'em,"  says  Volpatte, 
looking  at  the  darkening  sky. 

"  You're  off  it ;  our  day  isn't  finished,"  replies  Tirette, 
whose  long  experience  of  calamity  has  taught  him  that 
one  must  not  jump  to  conclusions,  where  we  are,  even 
in  regard  to  the  modest  future  of  a  commonplace  evening 
that  has  already  begun. 

"  Allons  !  Muster  !  "  We  join  up  with  the  laggard 
inattention  of  custom.  With  himself  each  man  brings 
his  rifle,  his  pouches  of  cartridges,  his  water-bottle,  and 
a  pouch  that  contains  a  lump  of  bread.  Volpatte  is 
still  eating,  with  protruding  and  palpitating  cheek. 
Paradis,  with  purple  nose  and  chattering  teeth,  growls. 
Fouillade  trails  his  rifle  along  like  a  broom.  Marthereau 
looks  at  a  mournful  handkerchief,  rumpled  and  stiff, 
and  puts  it  back  in  his  pocket.  A  cold  drizzle  is  falling, 
and  everybody  shivers. 

Down  yonder  we  hear  a  droning  chant — "  Two  shovels, 

one  pick,  two  shovels,  one  pick "     The  file  trickles 

along  to   the   tool-store,  stagnates  at   the    door,  and 
departs,  bristling  with  implements. 

302 


THE   FATIGUE-PARTY  303 

"  Everybody  here  ?  Gee  up  !  "  says  the  sergeant. 
Downward  and  rolling,  we  go  forward.  We  know  not 
where  we  go.  We  know  nothing,  except  that  the  night 
and  the  earth  are  blending  in  the  same  abyss. 

As  we  emerge  into  the  nude  twilight  from  the  trench, 
we  see  it  already  black  as  the  crater  of  a  dead  volcano. 
Great  grey  clouds,  storm-charged,  hang  from  the  sky. 
The  plain,  too,  is  grey  in  the  pallid  light ;  the  grass  is 
muddy,  and  all  slashed  with  water.  The  things  which 
here  and  there  seem  only  distorted  limbs  are  denuded 
trees.  We  cannot  see  far  around  us  in  the  damp  reek; 
besides,  we  only  look  downwards  at  the  mud  in  which 
we  slide — "  Porridge  !  " 

Going  across  country  we  knead  and  pound  a  sticky 
paste  which  spreads  out  and  flows  back  from  every 
step — "  Chocolate  cream — coffee  creams  !  " 

On  the  stony  parts,  the  wiped-out  ruins  of  roads 
that  have  become  barren  as  the  fields,  the  marching 
troop  breaks  through  a  layer  of  slime  into  a  flinty 
conglomerate  that  grates  and  gives  way  under  our  iron- 
shod  soles — "  Seems  as  if  we  were  walking  on  buttered 
toast  !  " 

On  the  slope  of  a  knoll  sometimes  the  mud  is  black 
and  thick  and  deep-rutted,  like  that  which  forms  around 
the  horse-ponds  in  villages,  and  in  these  ruts  there  are 
lakes  and  puddles  and  ponds,  whose  edges  seem  to  be 
in  rags. 

The  pleasantries  of  the  wags,  who  in  the  early  fresh- 
ness of  the  journey  had  cried,  "  Quack,  quack,"  when 
they  went  through  the  water,  are  now  becoming  rare 
and  gloomy;  gradually  the  jokers  are  damped  down. 
The  rain  begins  to  fall  heavily.  The  daylight  dwindles, 
and  the  confusion  that  is  space  contracts.  The  last 
lingering  light  welters  on  the  ground  and  in  the  water. 

A  steaming  silhouette  of  men  like  monks  appears 
through  the  rain  in  the  west.  It  is  a  company  of  the 
204th,  wrapped  in  tent-cloths.  As  we  go  by  we  see  the 
pale  and  shrunken  faces  and  the  dark  noses  of  these 
dripping  prowlers  before  they  disappear.  The  track 


304  UNDER  FIRE 

we  are  following  through  the  faint  grass  of  the  fields  is 
itself  a  sticky  field  streaked  with  countless  parallel  ruts, 
all  ploughed  in  the  same  line  by  the  feet  and  the  wheels  of 
those  who  go  to  the  front  and  those  who  go  to  the  rear. 

We  have  to  jump  over  gaping  trenches,  and  this  is 
not  always  easy,  for  the  edges  have  become  soft  and 
slippery,  and  earth-falls  have  widened  them.  Fatigue, 
too,  begins  to  bear  upon  our  shoulders.  Vehicles  cross 
our  path  with  a  great  noise  and  splashing.  Artillery 
limbers  prance  by  and  spray  us  heavily.  The  motor 
lorries  are  borne  on  whirling  circles  of  water  around  the 
wheels,  with  spirting  tumultuous  spokes. 

As  the  darkness  increases,  the  jolted  vehicles  and 
the  horses'  necks  and  the  profiles  of  the  riders  with 
their  floating  cloaks  and  slung  carbines  stand  out  still 
more  fantastically  against  the  misty  floods  from  the 
sky.  Here,  there  is  a  block  of  ammunition  carts  of  the 
artillery.  The  horses  are  standing  and  trampling  as 
we  go  by.  We  hear  the  creaking  of  axles,  shouts,  dis- 
putes, commands  which  collide,  and  the  roar  of  the 
ocean  of  rain.  Over  the  confused  scuffle  we  can  see 
steam  rising  from  the  buttocks  of  the  teams  and  the 
cloaks  of  the  horsemen. 

"  Look  out  !  "  Something  is  laid  out  on  the  ground 
on  our  right — a  row  of  dead.  As  we  go  by,  our  feet 
instinctively  avoid  them  and  our  eyes  search  them. 
We  see  upright  boot-soles,  outstretched  necks,  the 
hollows  of  uncertain  faces,  hands  half  clenched  in  the 
air  over  the  dark  medley. 

We  march  and  march,  over  fields  still  ghostly  and 
footworn,  under  a  sky  where  ragged  clouds  unfurl  them- 
selves upon  the  blackening  expanse — which  seems  to 
have  befouled  itself  by  prolonged  contact  with  so  many 
multitudes  of  sorry  humanity. 

Then  we  go  down  again  into  the  communication 
trenches.  To  reach  them  we  make  a  wide  circuit,  so 
that  the  rearguard  can  see  the  whole  company,  a  hundred 
yards  away,  deployed  in  the  gloom,  little  obscure  figures 
sticking  to  the  slopes  and  following  each  other  in  loose 


THE   FATIGUE-PARTY  305 

order,  with  their  tools  and  their  rifles  pricking  up  on 
each  side  of  their  heads,  a  slender  trivial  line  that  plunges 
in  and  raises  its  arms  as  if  in  entreaty. 

These  trenches — still  of  the  second  lines — are  populous. 
On  the  thresholds  of  the  dug-outs,  where  cart-cloths  and 
skins  of  animals  hang  and  flap,  squatting  and  bearded 
men  watch  our  passing  with  expressionless  eyes,  as  if 
they  were  looking  at  nothing.  From  beneath  other 
cloths,  drawn  down  to  the  ground,  feet  are  projected, 
and  snores. 

"  Nom  de  Dieu !  It's  a  long  way  !  "  the  trampers  begin 
to  grumble.  There  is  an  eddy  and  recoil  in  the  flow. 

"  Halt !  "  The  stop  is  to  let  others  go  by.  We  pile 
ourselves  up.  cursing,  on  the  walls  of  the  trench.  It  is  a 
company  of  machine-gunners  with  their  curious  burdens. 

There  seems  to  be  no  end  to  it,  and  the  long  halts  are 
wearying.  Muscles  are  beginning  to  stretch.  The 
everlasting  march  is  overwhelming  us.  We  have  hardly 
got  going  again  when  we  have  to  recoil  once  more  into 
a  traverse  to  let  the  relief  of  the  telephonists  go  by. 
We  back  like  awkward  cattle,  and  restart  more  heavily. 

"  Look  out  for  the  wire  !  "  The  telephone  wire 
undulates  above  the  trench,  and  crosses  it  in  places 
between  two  posts.  When  it  is  too  slack,  its  curve  sags 
into  the  trench  and  catches  the  rifles  of  passing  men, 
and  the  ensnared  ones  struggle,  and  abuse  the  engineers 
who  don't  know  how  to  fix  up  their  threads. 

Then,  as  the  drooping  entanglement  of  precious  wires 
increases,  we  shoulder  our  rifles  with  the  butt  in  the 
air,  carry  the  shovels  under  our  arms,  and  go  forward 
with  lowered  heads. 

****** 

Our  progress  now  is  suddenly  checked,  and  we  only 
advance  step  by  step,  locked  in  each  other.  The  head 
of  the  column  must  be  in  difficult  case.  We  reach  a 
spot  where  falling  ground  leads  to  a  yawning  hole — the 
Covered  Trench.  The  others  have  disappeared  through 
the  low  doorway.  "  We've  got  to  go  into  this  black- 
pudding,  then  ?  " 


306  UNDER  FIRE 

Every  man  hesitates  before  ingulfing  himself  in  the 
narrow  underground  darkness,  and  it  is  the  total  of 
these  hesitations  and  lingerings  that  is  reflected  in  the 
rear  sections  of  the  column  in  the  form  of  wavering, 
obstruction,  and  sometimes  abrupt  shocks. 
;  jr  From  our  first  steps  in  the  Covered  Trench,  a  heavy 
darkness  settles  on  us  and  divides  us  from  each  other. 
The  damp  odour  of  a  swamped  cave  steals  into  us. 
In  the  ceiling  of  the  earthen  corridor  that  contains  us, 
we  can  make  out  a  few  streaks  and  holes  of  pallor — 
the  chinks  and  rents  in  the  overhead  planks.  Little 
streams  of  water  flow  freely  through  them  in  places, 
and  in  spite  of  tentative  groping  we  stumble  on  heaped- 
up  timber.  Alongside,  our  knocks  discover  the  dim 
vertical  presence  of  the  supporting  beams. 

The  air  in  this  interminable  tunnel  is  vibrating  heavily. 
It  is  the  searchlight  engine  that  is  installed  there — we 
have  to  pass  in  front  of  it- 
After  we  have  felt  our  deep-drowned  way  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  some  one  who  is  overborne  by  the  darkness 
and  the  wet,  and  tired  of  bumping  into  unknown  people, 
growls,  "  I  don't  care — I'm  going  to  light  up." 

The  brilliant  beam  of  a  little  electric  lamp  flashes  out, 
and  instantly  the  sergeant  bellows,  "  Ye  gods  !  Who's 
the  complete  ass  that's  making  a  light  ?  Are  you  daft  ? 
Don't  you  know  it  can  be  seen,  you  scab,  through  the 
roof?" 

The  flash-lamp,  after  revealing  some  dark  and  oozing 
walls  in  its  cone  of  light,  retires  into  the  night.  "  Not 
much  you  can't  see  it  !  "  jeers  the  man,  "  and  anyway 
we're  not  in  the  first  lines."  "  Ah,  that  can't  be  seen  !  " 
The  sergeant,  wedged  into  the  file  and  continuing 
to  advance,  appears  to  be  turning  round  as  he  goes 
and  attempting  some  forceful  observations — "  You 
gallows-bird  !  You  damned  dodger  !  "  But  suddenly 
he  starts  a  new  roar — "  What  !  Another  man  smoking 
now  !  Holy  hell !  "  This  time  he  tries  to  halt,  but 
in  vain  he  rears  himself  against  the  wall  and  struggles 
to  stick  to  it.  He  is  forced  precipitately  to  go  with 


THE  FATIGUE-PARTY  307 

the  stream  and  is  carried  away  among  his  own  shouts, 
which  return  and  swallow  him  up,  while  the  cigarette, 
the  cause  of  his  rage,  disappears  in  silence. 

#  *  *  *  *  # 

The  jerky  beat  of  the  engine  grows  louder,  and  an 
increasing  heat  surrounds  us.  The  overcharged  air  of 
the  trench  vibrates  more  and  more  as  we  go  forward. 
The  engine's  jarring  note  soon  hammers  our  ears  and 
shakes  us  through.  Still  it  gets  hotter ;  it  is  like  some 
great  animal  breathing  in  our  faces.  The  buried  trench 
seems  to  be  leading  us  down  and  down  into  the  tumult 
of  some  infernal  workshop,  whose  dark-red  glow  is 
sketching  out  our  huge  and  curving  shadows  in  purple 
on  the  walls. 

In  a  diabolical  crescendo  of  din,  of  hot  wind  and  of 
lights,  we  flow  deafened  towards  the  furnace.  One  would 
think  that  the  engine  itself  was  hurling  itself  through  the 
tunnel  to  meet  us,  like  a  frantic  motor-cyclist  drawing 
dizzily  near  with  his  headlight  and  destruction. 

Scorched  and  half  blinded,  we  pass  in  front  of  the 
red  furnace  and  the  black  engine,  whose  flywheel  roars 
like  a  hurricane,  and  we  have  hardly  time  to  make  out 
the  movements  of  men  around  it.  We  shut  our  eyes, 
choked  by  the  contact  of  this  glaring  white-hot  breath. 

Now,  the  noise  and  the  heat  are  raging  behind  us  and 
growing  feebler,  and  my  neighbour  mutters  in  his  beard, 
"  And  that  idiot  that  said  my  lamp  would  be  seen  !  " 

And  here  is  the  free  air  !  The  sky  is  a  very  dark 
blue,  of  the  same  colour  as  the  earth  and  little  lighter. 
The  rain  becomes  worse  and  worse,  and  walking  is 
laborious  in  the  heavy  slime.  The  whole  boot  sinks 
in,  and  it  is  a  labour  of  acute  pain  to  withdraw  the  foot 
every  time.  Hardly  anything  is  left  visible  in  the  night, 
but  at  the  exit  from  the  hole  we  see  a  disorder  of  beams 
which  flounder  in  the  widened  trench — some  demolished 
dug-out. 

Just  at  this  moment,  a  searchlight's  unearthly  arm 
that  was  swinging  through  space  stops  and  falls  on  us, 
and  we  find  that  the  tangle  of  uprooted  and  sunken 


3o8  UNDER  FIRE 

posts  and  shattered  framing  is  populous  with  dead 
soldiers.  Quite  close  to  me,  the  head  of  a  kneeling 
body  hangs  on  its  back  by  an  uncertain  thread;  a 
black  veneer,  edged  with  clotted  drops,  covers  the 
cheek.  Another  body  so  clasps  a  post  in  its  arms  that 
it  has  only  half  fallen.  Another,  lying  in  the  form  of  a 
circle,  has  been  stripped  by  the  shell,  and  his  back  and 
belly  are  laid  bare.  Another,  outstretched  on  the  edge 
of  the  heap,  has  thrown  his  hand  across  our  path ;  and 
in  this  place  where  there  is  no  traffic  except  by  night — 
for  the  trench  is  blocked  just  there  by  the  earth-fall  and 
inaccessible  by  day — every  one  treads  on  that  hand. 
By  the  searchlight's  shaft  I  saw  it  clearly,  fleshless  and 
worn,  a  sort  of  withered  fin. 

The  rain  is  raging,  and  the  sound  of  its  streaming 
dominates  everything — a  horror  of  desolation.  We  feel 
the  water  on  our  flesh  as  if  the  deluge  had  washed  our 
clothes  away. 

We  enter  the  open  trench,  and  the  embrace  of  night 
and  storm  resumes  the  sole  possession  of  this  confusion 
of  corpses,  stranded  and  cramped  on  a  square  of  earth 
as  on  a  raft. 

The  wind  freezes  the  drops  of  sweat  on  our  foreheads. 
It  is  near  midnight.  For  six  hours  now  we  have  marched 
in  the  increasing  burden  of  the  mud.  This  is  the  time 
when  the  Paris  theatres  are  constellated  with  electroliers 
and  blossoming  with  lamps ;  when  they  are  filled  with 
luxurious  excitement,  with  the  rustle  of  skirts,  with 
merrymaking  and  warmth ;  when  a  fragrant  and  radiant 
multitude,  chatting,  laughing,  smiling,  applauding, 
expanding,  feels  itself  pleasantly  affected  by  the  cleverly 
graduated  emotions  which  the  comedy  evokes,  and  lolls 
in  contented  enjoyment  of  the  rich  and  splendid  pageants 
of  military  glorification  that  crowd  the  stage  of  the  music- 
hall. 

"  Aren't  we  there  ?  Nom  de  Dieu,  shan't  we  ever  get 
there  ?  "  The  groan  is  breathed  by  the  long  procession 
that  tosses  about  in  these  crevices  of  the  earth,  carrying 
rifles  and  shovels  and  pickaxes  under  the  eternal  torrent. 


• 
THE   FATIGUE-PARTY  309 

We  march  and  march.  We  are  drunk  with  fatigue,  and 
roll  to  this  side  and  that.  Stupefied  and  soaked,  we 
strike  with  our  shoulders  a  substance  as  sodden  as 
ourselves. 

"Halt!"— "Are  we  there  ?  "— "  Ah,  yes,  we're 
there  !  " 

For  the  moment  a  heavy  recoil  presses  us  back,  and 
then  a  murmur  runs  along :  "  We've  lost  ourselves." 
The  truth  dawns  on  the  confusion  of  the  wandering  horde. 
We  have  taken  the  wrong  turn  at  some  fork,  and  it  will 
be  the  deuce  of  a  job  to  find  the  right  way  again. 

Then,  too,  a  rumour  passes  from  mouth  to  mouth 
that  a  fighting  company  on  its  way  to  the  lines  is  coming 
up  behind  us.  The  way  by  which  we  have  come  is 
stopped  up  with  men.  It  is  the  block  absolute. 

At  all  costs  we  must  try  to  regain  the  lost  trench — 
which  is  alleged  to  be  on  our  left — by  trickling  through 
some  sap  or  other.  Utterly  wearied  and  unnerved, 
the  men  break  into  gesticulations  and  violent  reproaches. 
They  trudge  awhile,  then  drop  their  tools  and  halt. 
Here  and  there  are  compact  groups — you  can  glimpse 
them  by  the  light  of  the  star-shells — who  have  let  them- 
selves fall  to  the  ground.  Scattered  afar  from  south 
to  north,  the  troop  waits  in  the  merciless  rain. 

The  lieutenant  who  is  in  charge  and  has  led  us  astray, 
wriggles  his  way  along  the  men  in  quest  of  some  lateral 
exit.  A  little  trench  appears,  shallow  and  narrow. 

"  W7e  must  go  that  way,  no  doubt  about  it,"  the  officer 
hastens  to  say.  "  Come,  forward,  boys." 

Each  man  sulkily  picks  up  his  burden.  But  a  chorus 
of  oaths  and  curses  rises  from  the  first  who  enter  the 
little  sap  :  "  It's  a  latrine  !  " 

A  disgusting  smell  escapes  from  the  trench,  and  those 
inside  halt,  butt  into  each  other,  and  refuse  to  advance. 
We  are  all  jammed  against  each  other  and  block  up  the 
threshold. 

"  I'd  rather  climb  out  and  go  in  the  open  !  "  cries  a 
man.  But  there  are  flashes  rending  the  sky  above  the 
embankments  on  all  sides,  and  the  sight  is  so  fearsome 


310  UNDER  FIRE 

of  these  jets  of  resounding  flame  that  overhang  our  pit 
and  its  swarming  shadows  that  no  one  responds  to  the 
madman's  saying. 

Willing  or  unwilling,  since  we  cannot  go  back,  we 
must  even  take  that  way.  "  Forward  into  the  filth  !  " 
cries  the  leader  of  the  troop.  We  plunge  in,  tense  with 
repulsion.  Bullets  are  whistling  over.  "  Lower  your 
heads  !  "  The  trench  has  little  depth ;  one  must  stoop 
very  low  to  avoid  being  hit,  and  the  stench  becomes 
intolerable.  At  last  we  emerge  into  the  communication 
trench  that  we  left  in  error.  We  begin  again  to  march. 
Though  we  march  without  end  we  arrive  nowhere. 

While  we  wander  on,  dumb  and  vacant,  in  the  dizzy 
stupefaction  of  fatigue,  the  stream  which  is  running  in 
the  bottom  of  the  trench  cleanses  our  befouled  feet. 

The  roars  of  the  artillery  succeed  each  other  faster 
and  faster,  till  they  make  but  a  single  roar  upon  all  the 
earth.  From  all  sides  the  gunfire  and  the  bursting  shells 
hurl  their  swift  shafts  of  light  and  stripe  confusedly  the 
black  sky  over  our  heads.  The  bombardment  then 
becomes  so  intense  that  its  illumination  has  no  break, 
In  the  continuous  chain  of  thunderbolts  we  can  see 
each  other  clearly — our  helmets  streaming  like  the  bodies 
-of  fishes,  our  sodden  leathers,  the  shovel-blades  black 
and  glistening ;  we  can  even  see  the  pale  drops  of  the 
unending  rain.  Never  have  I  seen  the  like  of  it ;  in 
very  truth  it  is  moonlight  made  by  gunfire. 

Together  there  mounts  from  our  lines  and  from 
the  enemy's  such  a  cloud  of  rockets  that  they  unite 
and  mingle  in  constellations;  at  one  moment,  to  light 
us  on  our  hideous  way,  there  was  a  Great  Bear  of  star- 
shells  in  the  valley  of  the  sky  that  we  could  see  between 

the  parapets. 

****** 

We  are  lost  again,  and  this  time  we  must  be  close  to 
the  first  lines ;  but  a  depression  in  this  part  of  the  plain 
forms  a  sort  of  basin,  overrun  by  shadows.  We  have 
marched  along  a  sap  and  then  back  again.  In  the 
phosphorescent  vibration  of  the  guns,  shimmering  like 
a  cinematograph,  we  make  out  above  the  parapet  two 


THE  FATIGUE-PARTY  311 

stretcher-bearers  trying  to  cross  the  trench  with  their 
laden  stretcher. 

The  lieutenant,  who  at  least  knows  the  place  where 
he  should  guide  the  team  of  workers,  questions  them, 
"  Where  is  the  New  Trench  ?  " — "  Don't  know."  From 
the  ranks  another  question  is  put  to  them,  "  How  far  are 
we  from  the  Boches  ?  "  They  make  no  reply,  as  they  are 
talking  among  themselves. 

"  I'm  stopping,"  says  the  man  in  front ;  "  I'm  too 
tired." 

"  Come,  get  on  with  you,  nom  de  Dieu ! "  says  the 
other  in  a  surly  tone  and  floundering  heavily,  his  arms 
extended  by  the  stretcher.  "  We  can't  stop  and  rust 
here." 

They  put  the  stretcher  down  on  the  parapet,  the  edge 
of  it  overhanging  the  trench,  and  as  we  pass  underneath 
we  can  see  the  prostrate  man's  feet.  The  rain  which 
falls  on  the  stretcher  drains  from  it  darkened. 

"  Wounded?  "  some  one  asks  down  below. 

"  No,  a  stiff,"  growls  the  bearer  this  time,  "  and  he 
weighs  twelve  stone  at  least.  Wounded  I  don't  mind — 
for  two  days  and  two  nights  we  haven't  left  off  carrying 
'em — but  it's  rotten,  breaking  yourself  up  with  lugging 
dead  men  about."  And  the  bearer,  upright  on  the  edge 
of  the  bank,  drops  a  foot  to  the  base  of  the  opposite 
bank  across  the  cavity,  and  with  his  legs  wide  apart, 
laboriously  balanced,  he  grips  the  stretcher  and  begins 
to  draw  it  across,  calling  on  his  companion  to  help  him. 

A  little  farther  we  see  the  stooping  form  of  a  hooded 
officer,  and  as  he  raises^his  hand  to  his  face  we  see  two 
gold  lines  on  his  sleeve.1'  He,  surely,  will  tell  us  the  way. 
But  he  addresses  us,  and  asks  if  we  have  not  seen  the 
battery  he  is  looking  for.  We  shall  never  get  there  ! 

But  we  do,  all  the  same.  We  finish  up  in  a  field 
of  blackness  where  a  few  lean  posts  are  bristling.  We 
climb  up  to  it,  and  spread  out  in  silence.  This  is  the 
spot. 

The  placing  of  us  is  an  undertaking.  Four  separate 
times  we  go  forward  and  then  retire,  before  the  company 
is  regularly  echelonned  along  the  length  of  the  trench  to 


312  UNDER  FIRE 

be  dug,  before  an  equal  interval  is  left  between  each  team 
of  one  striker  and  two  shovellers.  "  Incline  three  paces 
more — too  much — one  pace  to  the  rear.  Come,  one 
pace  to  the  rear — are  you  deaf? — Halt  !  There  !  " 

This  adjustment  is  done  by  the  lieutenant  and  a  non- 
com,  of  the  Engineers  who  has  sprung  up  out  of  the 
ground.  Together  or  separately  they  run  along  the  file 
and  give  their  muttered  orders  into  the  men's  ears  as 
they  take  them  by  the  arm,  sometimes,  to  guide  them. 
Though  begun  in  an  orderly  way,  the  arrangement 
degenerates,  thanks  to  the  ill  temper  of  the  exhausted 
men,  who  must  continually  be  uprooting  themselves 
from  the  spot  where  the  undulating  mob  is  stranded. 

"  We're  in  front  of  the  first  lines,"  they  whisper  round 
me.  "No,"  murmur  other  voices,  "we're  just  behind." 

No  one  knows.  The  rain  still  falls,  though  less 
fiercely  than  at  some  moments  on  the  march.  But  what 
matters  the  rain  !  We  have  spread  ourselves  out  on  the 
ground.  Now  that  our  backs  and  limbs  rest  in  the 
yielding  mud,  we  are  so  comfortable  that  we  are  un- 
concerned about  the  rain  that  pricks  our  faces  and  drives 
through  to  our  flesh,  indifferent  to  the  saturation  of  the 
bed  that  contains  us. 

But  we  get  hardly  time  enough  to  draw  breath. 
They  are  not  so  imprudent  as  to  let  us  bury  ourselves 
in  sleep.  We  must  set  ourselves  to  incessant  labour. 
It  is  two  o'clock  of  the  morning ;  in  four  hours  more 
it  will  be  too  light  for  us  to  stay  here.  There  is  not  a 
minute  to  lose. 

"  Every  man,"  they  say  to  us,  "  must  dig  five  feet  in 
length,  two  and  a  half  feet  in  width,  and  two  and  three- 
quarter  feet  in  depth.  That  makes  fifteen  feet  in  length 
for  each  team.  And  I  advise  you  to  get  into  it ;  the 
sooner  it's  done,  the  sooner  you'll  leave." 

We  know  the  pious  claptrap.  It  is  not  recorded  in 
the  annals  of  the  regiment  that  a  trenching  fatigue- 
party  ever  once  got  away  before  the  moment  when  it 
became  absolutely  necessary  to  quit  the  neighbourhood 
if  they  were  not  to  be  seen,  marked  and  destroyed  along 
with  the  work  of  their  hands. 


THE   FATIGUE-PARTY  313 

We  murmur,  "  Yes,  yes — all  right ;  it's  not  worth 
saying.  Go  easy." 

But  everybody  applies  himself  to  the  job  courageously, 
except  for  some  invincible  sleepers  whose  nap  will  involve 
them  later  in  superhuman  efforts. 

We  attack  the  first  layer  of  the  new  line — little 
mounds  of  earth,  stringy  with  grass.  The  ease  and 
speed  with  which  the  work  begins — like  all  entrenching 
work  in  free  soil — foster  the  illusion  that  it  will  soon  be 
finished,  that  we  shall  be  able  to  sleep  in  the  cavities 
we  have  scooped ;  and  thus  a  certain  eagerness  revives. 

But  whether  by  reason  of  the  noise  of  the  shovels,  or 
because  some  men  are  chatting  almost  aloud,  in  spite 
of  reproofs,  our  activity  wakes  up  a  rocket,  whose  flaming 
vertical  line  rattles  suddenly  on  our  right. 

"  Lie  down  !  "  Every  man  flattens  himself,  and  the 
rocket  balances  and  parades  its  huge  pallor  over  a  sort 
of  field  of  the  dead. 

As  soon  as  it  is  out  one  hears  the  men,  in  places  and 
then  all  along,  detach  themselves  from  their  secretive 
stillness,  get  up,  and  resume  the  task  with  more  dis- 
cretion. 

Soon  another  star-shell  tosses  aloft  its  long  golden 
stalk,  and  still  more  brightly  illuminates  the  flat  and 
motionless  line  of  trenchmakers.  Then  another  and 
another. . 

Bullets  rend  the  air  around  us,  and  we  hear  a  cry, 
"  Some  one  wounded ! "  He  passes,  supported  by 
comrades.  We  can  just  see  the  group  of  men  who  are 
going  away,  dragging  one  of  their  number. 

The  place  becomes  unwholesome.  We  stoop  and 
crouch,  and  some  are  scratching  at  the  earth  on  their 
knees.  Others  are  working  full  length;  they  toil,  and 
turn,  and  turn  again,  like  men  in  nightmares.  The 
earth,  whose  first  layer  was  light  to  lift,  becomes  muddy 
and  sticky ;  it  is  hard  to  handle,  and  clings  to  the  tool 
like  glue.  After  every  shovelful  the  blade  must  be 
scraped. 

Already  a  thin  heap  of  earth  is  winding  along,*  and 
eack  man  has  the  idea  of  reinforcing  the  incipient 


314  UNDER  FIRE 

breastwork  with  his  pouch  and  his  rolled-up  greatcoat, 
and  he  hoods  himself  behind  the  slender  pile  of  shadow 
when  a  volley  comes-- — 

While  we  work  we  sweat,  and  as  soon  as  we  stop 
working  we  are  pierced  through  by  the  cold.  A  spell 
seems  to  be  cast  on  us,  paralysing  our  arms.  The  rockets 
torment  and  pursue  us,  and  allow  us  but  little  movement. 
After  every  one  of  them  that  petrifies  us  with  its  light 
we  have  to  struggle  against  a  task  still  more  stubborn. 
The  hole  only  deepens  into  the  darkness  with  painful  and 
despairing  tardiness. 

The  ground  gets  softer ;  each  shovelful  drips  and  flows, 
and  spreads  from  the  blade  with  a  flabby  sound.  At 
last  some  one  cries,  "  Water ! "  The  repeated  cry 
travels  all  along  the  row  of  diggers — "  Water — that's 
done  it  !  " 

"  Melusson's  team's  dug  deeper,  and  there's  water. 
They've  struck  a  swamp." — "  No  help  for  it." 

We  stop  in  confusion.  In  the  bosom  of  the  night 
we  hear  the  sound  of  shovels  and  picks  thrown  down 
like  empty  weapons.  The  non-coms,  go  gropingly  after 
the  officer  to  get  instructions.  Here  and  there,  with  no 
desire  for  anything  better,  some  men  are  going  deliciously 
to  sleep  under  the  "caress  of  the  rain,  under  the  radiant 

rockets. 

****** 

It  was  very  nearly  at  this  minute,  as  far  as  I  can 
remember,  that  the  bombardment  began  again.  The 
first  shell  fell  with  a  terrible  splitting  of  the  air,  which 
seemed  to  tear  itself  in  two;  and  other  whistles  were 
already  converging  upon  us  when  its  explosion  uplifted 
the  ground  at  the  head  of  the  detachment  in  the  heart 
of  the  magnitude  of  night  and  rain,  revealing  gesticula- 
tions upon  a  sudden  screen  of  red. 

No  doubt  they  had  seen  us,  thanks  to  the  rockets, 
and  had  trained  their  fire  on  us. 

The  men  hurled  and  rolled  themselves  towards  the 
little  flooded  ditch  that  they  had  dug,  wedging,  burying, 
and  immersing  themselves  in  it,  and  placed  the  blades 
of  the  shovels  over  their  heads.  To  right,  to  left,  in 


THE   FATIGUE-PARTY  315 

front  and  behind,  shells  burst  so  near  that  every  one  of 
them  shook  us  in  our  bed  of  clay ;  and  it  became  soon 
one  continuous  quaking  that  seized  the  wretched  gutter, 
crowded  with  men  and  scaly  with  shovels,  under  the 
strata  of  smoke  and  the  falling  fire.  The  splinters  and 
debris  crossed  in  all  directions  with  a  network  of  noise 
over  the  dazzling  field.  No  second  passed  but  we  all 
thought  what  some  stammered  with  their  faces  in  the 
earth,  "  We're  done,  this  time  !  " 

A  little  in  front  of  the  place  where  I  am,  a  shape  has 
arisen  and  cried,  "  Let's  be  off  !  "  Prone  bodies  half 
rose  out  of  the  shroud  of  mud  that  dripped  in  tails  and 
liquid  rags  from  their  limbs,  and  these  deathful  appari- 
tions cried  also,  "  Let's  go  !  "  They  were  on  their 
knees,  on  all-fours,  crawling  towards  the  way  of  retreat : 
"  Get  on,  allez,  get  on  !  " 

But  the  long  file  stayed  motionless,  and  the  frenzied 
complaints  were  in  vain.  They  who  were  down  there 
at  the  end  would  not  budge,  and  their  inactivity  im- 
mobilised the  rest.  Some  wounded  passed  over  the 
others,  crawling  over  them  as  over  debris,  and  sprinkling 
the  whole  company  with  their  blood. 

We  discovered  at  last  the  cause  of  the  maddening 
inactivity  of  the  detachment's  tail — "  There's  a  barrage 
fire  beyond." 

A  weird  imprisoned  panic  seized  upon  the  men  with 
cries  inarticulate  and  gestures  stillborn.  They  writhed 
upon  the  spot.  But  little  shelter  as  the  incipient  trench 
afforded,  no  one  dared  leave  the  ditch  that  saved  us 
from  protruding  above  the  level  of  the  ground,  no  one 
dared  fly  from  death  towards  the  traverse  that  should 
be  down  there.  Great  were  the  risks  of  the  wounded 
who  had  managed  to  crawl  over  the  others,  and  every 
moment  some  were  struck  and  went  down  again. 

Fire  and  water  fell  blended  everywhere.  Profoundly 
entangled  in  the  supernatural  din,  we  shook  from  neck 
to  heels.  The  most  hideous  of  deaths  was  falling  and 
bounding  and  plunging  all  around  us  in  waves  of  light, 
its  crashing  snatched  our  fearfulness  in  all  directions — 
our  flesh  prepared  itself  for  the  monstrous  sacrifice  ! 


3i6  UNDER  FIRE 

In  that  tense  moment  of  imminent  destruction,  we  could 
only  remember  just  then  how  often  we  had  already 
experienced  it,  how  often  undergone  this  outpouring  of 
iron,  and  the  burning  roar  of  it,  and  the  stench.  It  is 
only  during  a  bombardment  that  one  really  recalls  those 
he  has  already  endured. 

And  still,  without  ceasing,  newly-wounded  men  crept 
over  us,  fleeing  at  any  price.  In  the  fear  that  their 
contact  evoked  we  groaned  again,  "  We  shan't  get  out 
of  this ;  nobody  will  get  out  of  it." 

Suddenly  a  gap  appeared  in  the  compressed  humanity, 
and  those  behind  breathed  again,  for  we  were  on  the 
move. 

We  began  by  crawling,  then  we  ran,  bowed  low  in 
the  mud  and  water  that  mirrored  the  flashes  and  the 
crimson  gleams,  stumbling  and  falling  over  submerged 
obstructions,  ourselves  resembling  heavy  splashing  pro- 
jectiles, thunder-hurled  along  the  ground.  We  arrive 
at  the  starting-place  of  the  trench  we  had  begun  to  dig. 

"  There's  no  trench — there's  nothing." 

In  truth  the  eye  could  discern  no  shelter  in  the  plain 
where  our  work  had  begun.  Even  by  the  stormy  flash 
of  the  rockets  we  could  only  see  the  plain,  a  huge  and 
raging  desert.  The  trench  could  not  be  far  away,  for 
it  had  brought  us  here.  But  which  way  must  we  steer 
to  find  it  ? 

The  rain  redoubled.  We  lingered  a  moment  in 
mournful  disappointment,  gathered  on  a  lightning- 
smitten  and  unknown  shore — and  then  the  stampede. 

Some  bore  to  the  left,  some  to  the  right,  some  went 
straight  forward — tiny  groups  that  one  only  saw  for  a 
second  in  the  heart  of  the  thundering  rain  before  they 
were  separated  by  sable  avalanches  and  curtains  of 
flaming  smoke. 

#  #  *  #  *  * 

The  bombardment  over  our  heads  grew  less ;   it  was 
chiefly  over  the  place  where  we  had  been  that  it  was 
increasing.     But  it  might  any  minute  isolate  everything 
and  destroy  it. 
The  rain  became  more  and  more  torrential — a  deluge 


THE   FATIGUE-PARTY  317 

in  the  night.  The  darkness  was  so  deep  that  the  star- 
shells  only  lit  up  slices  of  water-seamed  obscurity,  in 
the  depths  of  which  fleeing  phantoms  came  and  went 
and  ran  round  in  circles. 

I  cannot  say  how  long  I  wandered  with  the  group 
with  which  I  had  remained.  We  went  into  morasses. 
We  strained  our  sight  forward  in  quest  of  the  embank- 
ment and  the  trench  of  salvation,  towards  the  ditch 
that  was  somewhere  there,  as  towards  a  harbour. 

A  cry  of  consolation  was  heard  at  last  through  the 
vapours  of  war  and  the  elements — "  A  trench  !  "  But 
the  embankment  of  that  trench  was  moving;  it  was 
made  of  men  mingled  in  confusion,  who  seemed  to  be 
coming  out  and  abandoning  it. 

"  Don't  stay  there,  mates  !  "  cried  the  fugitives ; 
"  clear  off,  don't  come  near  !  It's  hell — everything's 
collapsing — the  trenches  are  legging  it  and  the  dug-outs 
are  bunged  up — the  mud's  pouring  in  everywhere. 
There  won't  be  any  trenches  by  the  morning — it's  all 
up  with  them  about  here  !  " 

They  disappeared.  Where?  We  forgot  to  ask  for 
some  little  direction  from  these  men  whose  streaming 
shapes  had  no  sooner  appeared  than  they  were  swallowed 
up  in  the  dark. 

Even  our  little  group  crumbled  away  among  the 
devastation,  no  longer  knowing  where  they  were.  Now 
one,  now  another,  faded  into  the  night,  disappearing 
towards  his  chance  of  escape. 

We  climbed  slopes  and  descended  them.  I  saw  dimly 
in  front  of  me  men  bowed  and  hunchbacked,  mounting  a 
slippery  incline  where  mud  held  them  back,  and  the  wind 
and  rain  repelled  them  under  a  dome  of  cloudy  lights. 

Then  we  flowed  back,  and  plunged  into  a  marsh  up  to 
our  knees.  So  high  must  we  lift  our  feet  that  we  walked 
with  a  sound  of  swimming.  Each  forward  stride  was 
an  enormous  effort  which  slackened  in  agony. 

It  was  there  that  we  felt  death  drawing  near.  But 
we  beached  ourselves  at  last  on  a  sort  of  clay  embank- 
ment that  divided  the  swamp.  As  we  followed  the 
slippery  back  of  this  slender  island  along,  I  remember 


3i8  UNDER  FIRE 

that  once  we  had  to  stoop  and  steer  ourselves  by  touching 
some  half -buried  corpses,  so  that  we  should  not  be  thrown 
down  from  the  soft  and  sinuous  ridge.  My  hand 
discovered  shoulders  and  hard  backs,  a  face  cold  as  a 
helmet,  and  a  pipe  still  desperately  bitten  by  dead  jaws. 

As  we  emerged  and  raised  our  heads  at  a  venture 
we  heard  the  sound  of  voices  not  far  away.  "  Voices  ! 
Ah,  voices  !  "  They  sounded  tranquil  to  us,  as  though 
they  called  us  by  our  names,  and  we  all  came  close 
together  to  approach  this  fraternal  murmuring  of  men. 

The  words  became  distinct.  They  were  quite  near — 
in  the  hillock  that  we  could  dimly  see  like  an  oasis ;  and 
yet  we  could  not  hear  what  they  said.  The  sounds 
were  muddled,  and  we  did  not  understand  them. 

"What  are  they  saying?"  asked  one  of  us  in  a 
curious  tone. 

Instinctively  we  stopped  trying  to  find  a  way  in. 
A  doubt,  a  painful  idea  was  seizing  us.  Then,  clearly 
enunciated,  there  rang  out  these  words — 

"  Achtung  ! — Zweites  Geschutz — Schuss " 

Farther  back,  the  report  of  a  gun  answered  the 
telephonic  command. 

Horror  and  stupefaction  nailed  us  to  the  spot  at 
first — "Where  are  we?  Oh,  Christ,  where  are  we?" 
Turning  right  about  face,  slowly  in  spite  of  all,  borne 
down  anew  by  exhaustion  and  dismay,  we  took  flight, 
as  overwhelmed  by  weariness  as  if  we  had  many  wounds, 
pulled  back  by  the  mud  towards  the  enemy  country,  and 
retaining  only  just  enough  energy  to  repel  the  thought  of 
the  sweetness  it  would  have  been  to  let  ourselves  die. 

We  came  to  a  sort  of  great  plain.  We  halted  and 
threw  ourselves  on  the  ground  on  the  side  of  a  mound, 
and  leaned  back  upon  it,  unable  to  make  another  step. 

And  we  moved  no  more,  my  shadowy  comrades  nor  I. 
The  rain  splashed  in  our  faces,  streamed  down  our  backs 
and  chests,  ran  down  from  our  knees  and  filled  our  boots. 

We  should  perhaps  be  killed  or  taken  prisoners  when 
day  came.  But  we  thought  no  more  of  any  tiling.  We 
could  do  no  more ;  we  knew  no  more. 


XXIV 

THE    DAWN 

WE  are  waiting  for  daylight  in  the  place  where  we 
sank  to  the  ground.  Sinister  and  slow  it  comes,  chilling 
and  dismal,  and  expands  upon  the  livid  landscape. 

The  rain  has  ceased  to  fall — there  is  none  left  in  the 
sky.  The  leaden  plain  and  its  mirrors  of  sullied  water 
seem  to  issue  not  only  from  the  night  but  from  the  sea. 

Drowsy  or  half  asleep,  sometimes  opening  our  eyes 
only  to  close  them  again,  we  attend  the  incredible 
renewal  of  light,  paralysed  with  cold  and  broken  with 
fatigue. 

Where  are  the  trenches  ? 

We  see  lakes,  and  between  the  lakes  there  are  lines 
of  milky  and  motionless  water.  There  is  more  water 
even  than  we  had  thought.  It  has  taken  everything 
and  spread  everywhere,  and  the  prophecy  of  the  men 
in  the  night  has  come  true.  There  are  no  more  trenches ; 
those  canals  are  the  trenches  enshrouded.  It  is  a 
universal  flood.  The  battlefield  is  not  sleeping;  it  is 
dead.  Life  may  be  going  on  down  yonder  perhaps,  but 
we  cannot  see  so  far. 

Swaying  painfully,  like  a  sick  man,  in  the  terrible 
encumbering  clasp  of  my  greatcoat,  I  half  raise  myself 
to  look  at  it  all.  There  are  three  monstrously  shape- 
less forms  beside  me.  One  of  them — it  is  Paradis,  in 
an  amazing  armour  of  mud,  with  a  swelling  at  the 
waist  that  stands  for  his  cartridge  pouches — gets  up 
also.  The  others  are  asleep,  and  make  no  movement. 

And  what  is  this  silence,  too,  this  prodigious  silence  ? 
There  is  no  sound,  except  when  from  time  to  time  a 
lump  of  earth  slips  into  the  water,  in  the  middle  of  this 


320  UNDER  FIRE 

fantastic  paralysis  of  the  world.  No  one  is  firing. 
There  are  no  shells,  for  they  would  not  burst.  There 
are  no  bullets,  either,  for  the  men 

Ah,  the  men  !     Where  are  the  men  ? 

We  see  them  gradually.  Not  far  from  us  there  are 
some  stranded  and  sleeping  hulks  so  moulded  in  mud 
from  head  to  foot  that  they  are  almost  transformed 
into  inanimate  objects. 

Some  distance  away  I  can  make  out  others,  curled 
up  and  clinging  like  snails  all  along  a  rounded  embank- 
ment, from  which  they  have  partly  slipped  back  into 
the  water.  It  is  a  motionless  rank  of  clumsy  lumps, 
of  bundles  placed  side  by  side,  dripping  water  and  mud, 
and  of  the  same  colour  as  the  soil  with  which  they  are 
blended. 

I  make  an  effort  to  break  the  silence.  To  Paradis, 
who  also  is  looking  that  way,  I  say,  "  Are  they  dead  ?  " 

"  We'll  go  and  see  presently,"  he  says  in  a  low  voice; 
"  stop  here  a  bit  yet.  We  shall  have  the  heart  to  go 
there  by  and  by." 

We  look  at  each  other,  and  our  eyes  fall  also  on  the 
others  who  came  and  fell  down  here.  Their  faces  spell 
such  weariness  that  they  are  no  longer  faces  so  much 
as  something  dirty,,  disfigured  and  bruised,  with  blood- 
shot eyes.  Since  the  beginning  we  have  seen  each 
other  in  all  manner  of  shapes  and  appearances,  and 
yet — we  do  not  know  each  other. 

Paradis  turns  his  head  and  looks  elsewhere. 

Suddenly  I  see  him  seized  with  trembling.  He 
extends  an  arm  enormously  caked  in  mud.  "  There — 
there "  he  says. 

On  the  water  which  overflows  from  a  stretch  par- 
ticularly cross-seamed  and  gullied,  some  lumps  are 
floating,  some  round-backed  reefs. 

We  drag  ourselves  to  the  spot.  They  are  drowned 
men.  Their  arms  and  heads  are  submerged.  On  the 
surface  of  the  plastery  liquid  appear  their  backs  and 
the  straps  of  their  accoutrements.  Their  blue  cloth 
trousers  are  inflated,  with  the  feet  attached  askew  upon 


THE  DAWN  321 

the  ballooning  legs,  like  the  black  wooden  feet  on  the 
shapeless  legs  of  marionettes.  From  one  sunken  head 
the  hair  stands  straight  up  like  water-weeds.  Here  is 
a  face  which  the  water  only  lightly  touches;  the  head 
is  beached  on  the  marge,  and  the  body  disappears  in 
its  turbid  tomb.  The  face  is  lifted  skyward.  The  eyes 
are  two  white  holes;  the  mouth  is  a  black  hole.  The 
mask's  yellow  and  puffed-up  skin  appears  soft  and 
creased,  like  dough  gone  cold. 

They  are  the  men  who  were  watching  there,  and 
could  not  extricate  themselves  from  the  mud.  All 
their  efforts  to  escape  over  the  sticky  escarpment  of 
the  trench  that  was  slowly  and  fatally  rilling  with  water 
only  dragged  them  still  more  into  the  depth.  They 
died  clinging  to  the  yielding  support  of  the  earth. 

There,  our  first  lines  are ;  and  there,  the  first  German 
lines,  equally  silent  and  flooded.  On  our  way  to  these 
flaccid  ruins  we  pass  through  the  middle  of  what  yester- 
day was  the  zone  of  terror,  the  awful  space  on  whose 
threshold  the  fierce  rush  of  our  last  attack  was  forced 
to  stop,  the  No  Man's  Land  which  bullets  and  shells 
had  not  ceased  to  furrow  for  a  year  and  a  half,  where 
their  crossed  fire  during  these  latter  days  had  furiously 
swept  the  ground  from  one  horizon  to  the  other. 

Now,  it  is  a  field  of  rest.  The  ground  is  everywhere 
dotted  with  beings  who  sleep  or  who  are  on  the  way  to 
die,  slowly  moving,  lifting  an  arm,  lifting  the  head. 

The  enemy  trench  is  completing  the  process  of 
foundering  into  itself,  among  great  marshy  undulations 
and  funnel-holes,  shaggy  with  mud;  it  forms  among 
them  a  line  of  pools  and  wells.  Here  and  there  we  can 
see  the  still  overhanging  banks  begin  to  move,  crumble, 
and  fall  down.  In  one  place  we  can  lean  against  it. 

In  this  bewildering  circle  of  filth  there  are  no  bodies. 
But  there,  worse  than  a  body,  a  solitary  arm  protrudes, 
bare  and  white  as  a  stone,  from  a  hole  which  dimly 
shows  on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  The  man  has 
been  buried  in  his  dug-out  and  has  had  only  the  time 
to  thrust  out  his  arm. 


322  UNDER   FIRE 

Quite  near,  we  notice  that  some  mounds  of  earth 
aligned  along  the  ruined  ramparts  of  this  deep-drowned 
ditch  are  human.  Are  they  dead — or  asleep?  We  do 
not  know;  in  any  case,  they  rest. 

Are  they  German  or  French?  We  do  not  know. 
One  of  them  has  opened  his  eyes,  and  looks  at  us  with 
swaying  head.  We  say  to  him,  "  French  ?  " — and  then, 
"  Deutsch?"  He  makes  no  reply,  but  shuts  his  eyes 
again  and  relapses  into  oblivion.  We  never  knew  what 
he  was. 

We  cannot  decide  the  identity  of  these  beings,  either 
by  their  clothes,  thickly  covered  with  filth,  or  by  their 
head-dress,  for  they  are  bareheaded  or  swathed  in 
woollens  under  their  liquid  and  offensive  cowls;  or  by 
their  weapons,  for  they  either  have  no  rifles  or  their 
hands  rest  lightly  on  something  they  have  dragged 
along,  a  shapeless  and  sticky  mass,  like  to  a  sort  of  fish. 

All  these  men  of  corpse-like  faces  who  are  before  us 
and  behind  us,  at  the  limit  of  their  strength,  void  of 
speech  as  of  will,  all  these  earth-charged  men  who  you 
would  say  were  carrying  their  own  winding-sheets  are 
as  much  alike  as  if  they  were  naked.  Out  of  the  horror 
of  the  night  apparitions  are  issuing  from  this  side  and 
that  who  are  clad  in  exactly  the  same  uniform  of  misery 
and  mud. 

It  is  the  end  of  all.  For  the  moment  it  is  the  pro- 
digious finish,  the  epic  cessation  of  the  war. 

I  once  used  to  think  that  the  worst  hell  in  war  was 
the  flame  of  shells;  and  then  for  long  I  thought  it 
was  the  suffocation  of  the  caverns  which  eternally 
confine  us.  But  it  is  neither  of  these.  Hell  is  water. 

The  wind  is  rising,  and  its  icy  breath  goes  through 
our  flesh.  On  the  wrecked  and  dissolving  plain,  flecked 
with  bodies  between  its  worm-shaped  chasms  of  water, 
among  the  islands  of  motionless  men  stuck  together 
like  reptiles,  in  this  flattening  and  sinking  chaos  there 
are  some  slight  indications  of  movement.  We  see 
slowly  stirring  groups  and  fragments  of  groups,  com- 
posed of  beings  who  bow  under  the  weight  of  their 


THE  DAWN  323 

coats  and  aprons  of  mud,  who  trail  themselves  along, 
disperse,  and  crawl  about  in  the  depths  of  the  sky's 
tarnished  light.  The  dawn  is  so  foul  that  one  would 
say  the  day  was  already  done. 

These  survivors  are  migrating  across  the  desolated 
steppe,  pursued  by  an  unspeakable  evil  which  exhausts 
and  bewilders  them.  They  are  lamentable  objects ;  and 
some,  when  they  are  fully  seen,  are  dramatically  ludi- 
crous, for  the  whelming  mud  from  which  they  still  take 
flight  has  half  unclothed  them. 

As  they  pass  by  their  glances  go  widely  around. 
They  look  at  us,  and  discovering  men  in  us  they  cry 
through  the  wind,  "  It's  worse  down  yonder  than  it  is 
here.  The  chaps  are  falling  into  the  holes,  and  you 
can't  pull  them  out.  Ah1  them  that  trod  on  the  edge 
of  a  shell-hole  last  night,  they're  dead.  Down  there 
where  we're  coming  from  you  can  see  a  head  in  the 
ground,  working  its  arms,  embedded.  There's  a  hurdle- 
path  that's  given  way  in  places  and  the  hurdles  have 
sunk  into  holes,  and  it's  a  man-trap.  Where  there's 
no  more  hurdles  there's  two  yards  deep  of  water.  Your 
rifle?  You  couldn't  pull  it  out  again  when  you'd 
stuck  it  in.  Look  at  those  men,  there.  They've  cut 
off  all  the  bottom  half  of  their  greatcoats — hard  lines 
on  the  pockets — to  help  'em  get  clear,  and  also  because 
they  hadn't  strength  to  drag  a  weight  like  that.  Dumas' 
coat,  we  were  able  to  pull  it  off  him,  and  it  weighed  a 
good  eighty  pounds;  we  could  just  lift  it,  two  of  us, 
with  both  our  hands.  Look — him  with  the  bare  legs; 
it's  taken  everything  off  him,  his  trousers,  his  drawers, 
his  boots,  all  dragged  off  by  the  mud.  One's  never 
seen  that,  never." 

Scattered  and  straggling,  the  herd  takes  flight  in  a 
fever  of  fear,  their  feet  pulling  huge  stumps  of  mud  out 
of  the  ground.  We  watch  the  human  flotsam  fade  away, 
and  the  lumps  of  them  diminish,  immured  in  enormous 
clothes. 

We  get  up,  and  at  once  the  icy  wind  makes  us  tremble 
like  trees.  Slowly  we  veer  towards  the  mass  formed 


324  UNDER  FIRE 

by  two  men  curiously  Joined,  leaning  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  and  each  with  an  arm  round  the  neck  of  the 
other.  Is  it  the  hand-to-hand  fight  of  two  soldiers  who 
have  overpowered  each  other  in  death  and  still  hold 
their  own,  who  can  never  again  loose  their  grip  ?  No ; 
they  are  two  men  who  recline  upon  each  other  so  as  to 
sleep.  As  they  might  not  spread  themselves  on  the 
failing  earth  that  was  ready  to  spread  itself  on  them, 
they  have  supported  each  other,  clasping  each  other's 
shoulder;  and  thus  plunged  in  the  ground  up  to  their 
knees,  they  have  gone  to  sleep. 

We  respect  their  stillness,  and  withdraw  from  the 
twin  statue  of  human  wretchedness. 

Soon  we  must  halt  ourselves.  We  have  expected  too 
much  of  our  strength  and  can  go  no  farther.  It  is  not 
yet  ended.  We  collapse  once  more  in  a  churned  corner, 
with  a  noise  as  if  one  shot  a  load  of  dung. 

From  time  to  time  we  open  our  eyes.  Some  men 
are  steering  for  us,  reeling.  They  lean  over  us  and 
speak  in  low  and  weary  tones.  One  of  them  says, 
"  Sie  sind  todt.  Wir  bleiben  hier "  (They're  dead. 
We'll  stay  here).  The  other  says,  "  Ja,"  like  a-sigh. 

But  they  see  us  move,  and  at  once  they  sink  in  front 
of  us.  The  man  with  the  toneless  voice  says  to  us  in 
French,  "  We  surrender,"  and  they  do  not  move.  Then 
they  give  way  entirely,  as  if  this  was  the  relief,  the 
end  of  their  torture;  and  one  of  them  whose  face  is 
patterned  in  mud  like  a  savage  tattooed,  smiles  slightly. 

"  Stay  there,"  says  Paradis,  without  moving  the  head 
that  he  leans  backward  upon  a  hillock;  "  presently  you 
shall  go  with  us  if  you  want." 

"  Yes,"  says  the  German,  "  I've  had  enough."  We 
make  no  reply,  and  he  says,  "  And  the  others  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Paradis,  "  let  them  stop  too,  if  they 
like."  There  are  four  of  them  outstretched  on  the 
ground.  The  death-rattle  has  got  one  of  them.  It  is 
like  a  sobbing  song  that  rises  from  him.  The  others 
then  half  straighten  themselves,  kneeling  round  him, 
and  roll  great  eyes  in  their  muck-mottled  faces.  We 


THE  DAWN  325 

get  up  and  watch  the  scene.  But  the  rattle  dies  out, 
and  the  blackened  throat  which  alone  in  all  the  big 
body  pulsed  like  a  little  bird,  is  still. 

"  Er  ist  todt  I "  (He's  dead)  says  one  of  the  men, 
beginning  to  cry.  The  others  settle  themselves  again  to 
sleep.  The  weeper  goes  to  sleep  as  he  weeps. 

Other  soldiers  have  come,  stumbling,  gripped  in 
sudden  halts  like  tipsy  men,  or  gliding  along  like  worms, 
to  take  sanctuary  here;  and  we  sleep  all  jumbled 
together  in  the  common  grave. 

****** 

Waking,  Paradis  and  I  look  at  each  other,  and 
remember.  We  return  to  life  and  daylight  as  in  a 
nightmare.  In  front  of  us  the  calamitous  plain  is 
resurrected,  where  hummocks  vaguely  appear  from 
their  immersion,  the  steel-like  plain  that  is  rusty  in 
places  and  shines  with  lines  and  pools  of  water,  while 
bodies  are  strewn  here  and  there  in  the  vastness  like 
foul  rubbish,  prone  bodies  that  breathe  or  rot. 

Paradis  says  to  me,  "  That's  war." 

"  Yes,  that's  it,"  he  repeats  in  a  far-away  voice, 
"  that's  war.  It's  not  anything  else." 

He  means — and  I  am  with  him  in  his  meaning — 
"  More  than  attacks  that  are  like  ceremonial  reviews, 
more  than  visible  battles  unfurled  like  banners,  more 
even  than  the  hand-to-hand  encounters  of  shouting 
strife,  War  is  frightful  and  unnatural  weariness,  water 
up  to  the  belly,  mud  and  dung  and  infamous  filth,  It 
is  befouled  faces  and  tattered  flesh,  it  is  the  corpses 
that  are  no  longer  like  corpses  even,  floating  on  the 
ravenous  earth.  It  is  that,  that  endless  monotony  of 
misery,  broken  by  poignant  tragedies;  it  is  that,  and 
not  the  bayonet  glittering  like  silver,  nor  the  bugle's 
chanticleer  call  to  the  sun  !  " 

Paradis  was  so  full  of  this  thought  that  he  ruminated 
a  memory,  and  growled,  "  D'you  remember  the  woman 
in  the  town  where  we  went  about  a  bit  not  so  very 
long  ago  ?  She  talked  some  drivel  about  attacks,  and 
said,  '  How  beautiful  they  must  be  to  see  ! ' 


326  UNDER  FIRE 

A  chasseur  who  was  full  length  on  his  belly,  flattened 
out  like  a  cloak,  raised  his  head  out  of  the  filthy  back- 
ground in  which  it  was  sunk,  and  cried,  "Beautiful? 
Oh,  hell !  It's  just  as  if  an  ox  were  to  say,  '  What  a 
fine  sight  it  must  be,  all  those  droves  of  cattle  driven 
forward  to  the  slaughter-house  ! '  He  spat  out  mud 
from  his  besmeared  mouth,  and  his  unburied  face  was 
like  a  beast's. 

"  Let  them  say,  '  It  must  be,'  "  he  sputtered  in  a 
strange  jerky  voice,  grating  and  ragged;  "that's  all 
right.  But  beautiful !  Oh,  hell  !  " 

Writhing  under  the  idea,  he  added  passionately, 
"  It's  when  they  say  things  like  that  that  they  hit  us 
hardest  of  all !  "  He  spat  again,  but  exhausted  by 
his  effort  he  fell  back  in  his  bath  of  mud,  and  laid  his 
head  in  his  spittle. 

****** 

Paradis,  possessed  by  his  notion,  waved  his  hand 
towards  the  wide  unspeakable  landscape,  and  looking 
steadily  on  it  repeated  his  sentence,  "  War  is  that.  It 
is  that  everywhere.  What  are  we,  we  chaps,  and 
what's  all  this  here?  Nothing  at  all.  All  we  can  see 
is  only  a  speck.  You've  got  to  remember  that  this 
morning  there's  three  thousand  kilometres  of  equal 
evils,  or  nearly  equal,  or  worse." 

"  And  then/'  said  the  comrade  at  our  side,  whom  we 
could  not  recognise  even  by  his  voice,  "  to-morrow  it 
begins  again.  It  began  again  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and  all  the  days  before  that  !  " 

With  an  effort  as  if  he  was  tearing  the  ground,  the 
chasseur  dragged  his  body  out  of  the  earth  where  he 
had  moulded  a  depression  like  an  oozing  coffin,  and 
sat  in  the  hole.  He  blinked  his  eyes  and  tried  to  shake 
the  valance  of  mud  from  his  face,  and  said,  "  We  shall 
come  out  of  it  again  this  time.  And  who  knows,  p'raps 
we  shall  come  out  of  it  again  to-morrow !  Who 
knows?  " 

Paradis,  with  his  back  bent  under  mats  of  earth  and 
clay,  was  trying  to  convey  his  idea  that  the  war  cannot 


THE  DAWN  327 

be  imagined  or  measured  in  terms  of  time  and  space. 
"  When  one  speaks  of  the  whole  war/'  he  said,  thinking 
aloud,  "  it's  as  if  you  said  nothing  at  all — the  words 
are  strangled.  We're  here,  and  we  look  at  it  all  like 
blind  men." 

A  bass  voice  rolled  to  us  from  a  little  farther  away, 
"No,  one  cannot  imagine  it." 

At  these  words  a  burst  of  harsh  laughter  tore  itself 
from  some  one.  "  How  could  you  imagine  it,  to  begin 
with,  if  you  hadn't  been  there  ?  " 

"  You'd  have  to  be  mad,"  said  the  chasseur. 

Paradis  leaned  over  a  sprawling  outspread  mass 
beside  him  and  said,  "  Are  you  asleep?  " 

"No,  but  I'm  not  going  to  budge."  The  smothered 
and  terror-struck  mutter  issued  instantly  from  the  mass 
that  was  covered  with  a  thick  and  slimy  horse-cloth,  so 
indented  that  it  seemed  to  have  been  trampled.  "  I'll 
tell  you  why.  I  believe  my  belly's  shot  through.  But 
I'm  not  sure,  and  I  daren't  find  out." 

"  Let's  see " 

"  No,  not  yet,"  says  the  man.  "  I'd  rather  stop  on 
a  bit  like  this." 

The  others,  dragging  themselves  on  their  elbows, 
began  to  make  splashing  movements,  by  way  of  casting 
off  the  clammy  infernal  covering  that  weighed  them 
down.  The  paralysis  of  cold  was  passing  away  from 
the  knot  of  sufferers,  though  the  light  no  longer  made 
any  progress  over  the  great  irregular  marsh  of  the 
lower  plain.  The  desolation  proceeded,  but  not  the  day. 

Then  he  who  spoke  sorrowfully,  like  a  bell,  said, 
"  It'll  be  no  good  telling  about  it,  eh?  They  wouldn't 
believe  you;  not  out  of  malice  or  through  liking  to 
pull  your  leg,  but  because  they  couldn't.  When  you 
say  to  'em  later,  if  you  live  to  say  it,  '  We  were  on  a 
night  job  and  we  got  shelled  and  we  were  very  nearly 
drowned  in  mud,'  they'll  say,  '  Ah ! '  And  p'raps 
they'll  say,  '  You  didn't  have  a  very  spicy  time  on  the 
job.'  And  that's  all.  No  one  can  know  it.  Only  us." 

"  No,  not  even  us,  not  even  us  !  "  some  one  cried. 


328  UNDER  FIRE 

"  That's  what  I  say,  too.  We  shall  forget — we're 
forgetting  already,  my  boy  !  " 

"  We've  seen  too  much  to  remember." 

"  And  everything  we've  seen  was  too  much.  We're 
not  made  to  hold  it  all.  It  takes  its  damned  hook  in 
all  directions.  We're  too  little  to  hold  it." 

"  You're  right,  we  shall  forget !  Not  only  the  length 
of  the  big  misery,  which  can't  be  calculated,  as  you 
say,  ever  since  the  beginning,  but  the  marches  that 
turn  up  the  ground  and  turn  it  again,  lacerating  your 
feet  and  wearing  out  your  bones  under  a  load  that  seems 
to  grow  bigger  in  the  sky,  the  exhaustion  until  you 
don't  know  your  own  name  any  more,  the  tramping 
and  the  inaction  that  grind  you,  the  digging  jobs  that 
exceed  your  strength,  the  endless  vigils  when  you  fight 
against  sleep  and  watch  for  an  enemy  who  is  every- 
where in  the  night,  the  pillows  of  dung  and  lice — we 
shall  forget  not  only  those,  but  even  the  foul  wounds 
of  shells  and  machine-guns,  the  mines,  the  gas,  and 
the  counter-attacks.  At  those  moments  you're  full  of 
the  excitement  of  reality,  and  you've  some  satisfaction. 
But  all  that  wears  off  and  goes  away,  you  don't  know 
how  and  you  don't  know  where,  and  there's  only  the 
names  left,  only  the  words  of  it,  like  in  a  dispatch." 

"  That's  true  what  he  says,"  remarks  a  man,  without 
moving  his  head  in  its  pillory  of  mud.  "  When  I  was 
on  leave,  I  found  I'd  already  jolly  well  forgotten  what 
had  happened  to  me  before.  There  were  some  letters 
from  me  that  I  read  over  again  just  as  if  they  were  a 
book  I  was  opening.  And  yet  in  spite  of  that,  I've  for- 
gotten also  all  the  pain  I've  had  in  the  war.  We're 
forgetting-machines.  Men  are  things  that  think  a  little 
but  chiefly  forget.  That's  what  we  are." 

"  Then  neither  the  other  side  nor  us'll  remember  ! 
So  much  misery  all  wasted  !  " 

This  point  of  view  added  to  the  abasement  of  these 
beings  on  the  shore  of  the  flood,  like  news  of  a  greater 
disaster,  and  humiliated  them  still  more. 

"Ah,  if  one  did  remember  !  "  cried  some  one. 


THE  DAWN  329 

"  If  we  remembered,"  said  another,  "  there  wouldn't 
be  any  more  war." 

A  third  added  grandly,  "  Yes,  if  we  remembered, 
war  would  be  less  useless  than  it  is." 

But  suddenly  one  of  the  prone  survivors  rose  to  his 
knees,  dark  as  a  great  bat  ensnared,  and  as  the  mud 
dripped  from  his  waving  arms  he  cried  in  a  hollow 
voice,  "  There  must  be  no  more  war  after  this  !  " 

In  that  miry  corner  where,  still  feeble  unto  impo- 
tence, we  were  beset  by  blasts  of  wind  which  laid  hold 
on  us  with  such  rude  strength  that  the  very  ground 
seemed  to  sway  like  sea-drift,  the  cry  of  the  man  who 
looked  as  if  he  were  trying  to  fly  away  evoked  other 
like  cries  :  "  There  must  be  no  more  war  after  this  !  " 

The  sullen  or  furious  exclamations  of  these  men 
fettered  to  the  earth,  incarnate  of  earth,  arose  and 
slid  away  on  the  wind  like  beating  wings — 

"  No  more  war  !     No  more  war  !     Enough  of  it  !  " 

<(  It's  too  stupid — it's  too  stupid,"  they  mumbled. 
"  What  does  it  mean,  at  the  bottom  of  it,  all  this? — all 
this  that  you  can't  even  give  a  name  to  ?  " 

They  snarled  and  growled  like  wild  beasts  on  that 
sort  of  ice-floe  contended  for  by  the  elements,  in  their 
dismal  disguise  of  ragged  mud.  So  huge  was  the 
protest  thus  rousing  them  in  revolt  that  it  choked 
them. 

"  We're  made  to  live,  not  to  be  done  in  like  this  !  " 

"  Men  are  made  to  be  husbands,  fathers — men,  what 
the  devil ! — not  beasts  that  hunt  each  other  and  cut 
each  other's  throats  and  make  themselves  stink  like  all 
that." 

"  And  yet,  everywhere — everywhere — there  are  beasts, 
savage  beasts  or  smashed  beasts.  Look,  look  !  " 

I  shall  never  forget  the  look  of  those  limitless  lands 
wherefrom  the  water  had  corroded  all  colour  and  form, 
whose  contours  crumbled  on  all  sides  under  the  assault 
of  the  liquid  putrescence  that  flowed  across  the  broken 
bones  of  stakes  and  wire  and  framing ;  nor,  rising  above 
those  things  amid  the  sullen  Stygian  immensity,  can  I 


330  UNDER   FIRE 

ever  forget  the  vision  of  the  thrill  of  reason,  logic  and 
simplicity  that  suddenly  shook  these  men  like  a  fit  of 
madness. 

I  could  see  them  agitated  by  this  idea — that  to  try 
to  live  one's  life  on  earth  and  to  be  happy  is  not  only 
a  right  but  a  duty,  and  even  an  ideal  and  a  virtue; 
that  the  only  end  of  social  life  is  to  make  easy  the 
inner  life  of  every  one. 

"  To  live  !  "—"  All  of  us  !  "— "  You  !  "— "  Me  !  " 

"  No  more  war — ah,  no  ! — it's  too  stupid — worse 
than  that,  it's  too " 

For  a  finishing  echo  to  their  half-formed  thought  a 
saying  came  to  the  mangled  and  miscarried  murmur 
of  the  mob  from  a  filth-crowned  face  that  I  saw  arise 
from  the  level  of  the  earth — 

"  Two  armies  fighting  each  other — that's  like  one 
great  army  committing  suicide  !  " 

****** 

"  And  likewise,  what  have  we  been  for  two  }^ears 
now  ?  Incredibly  pitiful  wretches,  and  savages  as  well, 
brutes,  robbers,  and  dirty  devils." 

"  Worse  than  that !  "  mutters  he  whose  only  phrase 
it  is. 

"  Yes,  I  admit  it  !  " 

In  their  troubled  truce  of  the  morning,  these  men 
whom  fatigue  had  tormented,  whom  rain  had  scourged, 
whom  night-long  lightning  had  convulsed,  these  sur- 
vivors of  volcanoes  and  flood  began  not  only  to  see 
dimly  how  war,  as  hideous  morally  as  physically,  out- 
rages common  sense,  debases  noble  ideas  and  dictates 
all  kind  of  crime,  but  they  remembered  how  it  had 
enlarged  in  them  and  about  them  every  evil  instinct  save 
none,  mischief  developed  into  lustful  cruelty,  selfishness 
into  ferocity,  the  hunger  for  enjoyment  into  a  mania. 

They  are  picturing  all  this  before  their  eyes  as  just 
now  they  confusedly  pictured  their  misery.  They  are 
crammed  with  a  curse  which  strives  to  find  a  way  out 
and  to  come  to  light  in  words,  a  curse  which  makes 
them  to  groan  and  wail.  It  is  as  if  they  toiled  to  emerge 


THE  DAWN  331 

from  the  delusion  and  ignorance  which  soil  them  as  the 
mud  soils  them ;  as  if  they  will  at  last  know  why  they 
are  scourged. 

"  Well  then  ?  "  clamours  one. 

"  Ay,  what  then  ?  "  the  other  repeats,  still  more 
grandly. 

The  wind  sets  the  flooded  flats  a-tremble  to  our 
eyes,  and  falling  furiously  on  the  human  masses  lying 
or  kneeling  and  fixed  like  flagstones  and  grave-slabs, 
it  wrings  new  shivering  from  them. 

"  There  will  be  no  more  war,"  growls  a  soldier,  "  when 
there  is  no  more  Germany." 

"  That's  not  the  right  thing  to  say  !  "  cries  another. 
"  It  isn't  enough.  There'll  be  no  more  war  when  the 
spirit  of  war  is  defeated."  The  roaring  of  the  wind  half 
smothered  his  words,  so  he  lifted  his  head  and  repeated 
them. 

"  Germany  and  militarism  " — some  one  in  his  anger 
precipitately  cut  in — "  they're  the  same  thing.  They 
wanted  the  war  and  they'd  planned  it  beforehand.  They 
are  militarism." 

"  Militarism "  a  soldier  began  again. 

"  What  is  it?  "  some  one  asked. 

"  It's — it's  brute  force  that's  ready  prepared,  and  that 
lets  fly  suddenly,  any  minute." 

"  Yes.    To-day  militarism  is  called  Germany." 

"  Yes,  but  what  will  it  be  called  to-morrow?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  a  voice  serious  as  a  prophet's. 

"  If  the  spirit  of  war  isn't  killed,  you'll  have  struggle 
all  through  the  ages." 

"  We  must — one's  got  to " 

"  We  must  fight !  "  gurgled  the  hoarse  voice  of  a 
man  who  had  lain  stiff  in  the  devouring  mud  ever  since 
our  awakening;  "  we've  got  to!"  His  body  turned 
heavily  over.  "  We've  got  to  give  all  we  have,  our 
strength  and  our  skins  and  our  hearts,  all  our  life  and 
what  pleasures  are  left  us.  The  life  of  prisoners  as  we 
are,  we've  got  to  take  it  in  both  hands.  You've  got  to 
endure  everything,  even  injustice — and  that's  the  king 


332  UNDER  FIRE 

that's  reigning  now — and  the  shameful  and  disgusting 
sights  we  see,  so  as  to  come  out  on  top,  and  win.  But 
if  we've  got  to  make  such  a  sacrifice/'  adds  the  shapeless 
man,  turning  over  again,  "it's  because  we're  fighting 
for  progress,  not  for  a  country ;  against  error,  not  against 
a  country." 

"  War  must  be  killed,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "  war 
must  be  killed  in  the  belly  of  Germany  !  " 

"  Anyway,"  said  one  of  those  who  sat  enrooted  there 
like  a  sort  of  shrub,  "  anyway,  we're  beginning  to 
understand  why  we've  got  to  march  away." 

"  All  the  same,"  grumbled  the  squatting  chasseur  in 
his  turn,  "  there  are  some  that  fight  with  quite  another 
idea  than  that  in  their  heads.  I've  seen  some  of  'em, 
young  men,  who  said, '  To  hell  with  humanitarian  ideas  ' ; 
what  mattered  to  them  was  nationality  and  nothing 
else,  and  the  war  was  a  question  of  fatherlands — let 
every  man  make  a  shine  about  his  own.  They  were 
fighting,  those  chaps,  and  they  were  fighting  well." 

"They're  young,  the  lads  you're  talking  about; 
they're  young,  and  we  must  excuse  'em." 

"  You  can  do  a  thing  well  without  knowing  what 
you  are  doing." 

"  Men  are  mad,  that's  true.  You'll  never  say  that 
often  enough." 

"  The  Jingoes — they're  vermin,"  growled  a  shadow. 

Several  times  they  repeated,  as  though  feeling  their 
way,  "  War  must  be  killed ;  war  itself." 

"That's  all  silly  talk.  What  difl  does  it  make 
whether  you  think  this  or  that?  We've  got  to  be 
winners,  that's  all." 

But  the  others  had  begun  to  cast  about.  They 
wanted  to  know  and  to  see  farther  than  to-day.  They 
throbbed  with  the  effort  to  beget  in  themselves  some 
light  of  wisdom  and  of  will.  Some  sparse  convictions 
whirled  in  their  minds,  and  jumbled  scraps  of  creeds 
issued  from  their  lips. 

"  Of  course — yes — but  we  must  look  at  facts — you've 
got  to  think  about  the  object,  old  chap." 


THE  DAWN  333 

"The  object?  To  be  winners  in  this  war,"  the 
pillar-man  insisted,  "  isn't  that  an  object  ?  " 

Two  there  were  who  replied  together,  "  No  !  " 
****** 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  dull  noise;  cries  broke 
out  around  us,  and  we  shuddered.  A  length  of  earth 
had  detached  itself  from  the  hillock  on  which — after  a 
fashion — we  were  leaning  back,  and  had  completely 
exhumed  in  the  middle  of  us  a  sitting  corpse,  with  its 
legs  out  full  length.  The  collapse  burst  a  pool  that  had 
gathered  on  the  top  of  the  mound,  and  the  water  spread 
like  a  cascade  over  the  body  and  laved  it  as  we  looked. 

Some  one  cried,  "  His  face  is  all  black  !  " 

"  What  is  that  face?  "  gasped  a  voice. 

Those  who  were  able  drew  near  in  a  circle,  like  frogs. 
We  could  not  gaze  upon  the  head  that  showed  in  low 
relief  upon  the  trench-wall  that  the  landslide  had  laid 
bare.  "  His  face  ?  It  isn't  his  face  !  "  In  place  of  the 
face  we  found  the  hair,  and  then  we  saw  that  the  corpse 
which  had  seemed  to  be  sitting  was  broken,  and  folded 
the  wrong  way.  In  dreadful  silence  we  looked  on  the 
vertical  back  of  the  dislocated  dead,  upon  the  hanging 
arms,  backward  curved,  and  the  two  outstretched  legs 
that  rested  on  the  sinking  soil  by  the  points  of  the 
toes. 

Then  the  discussion  began  again,  revived  by  this 
fearful  sleeper.  As  though  the  corpse  was  listening  they 
clamoured — 

"  No  !  To  win  isn't  the  object.  It  isn't  those  others 
we've  got  to  get  at — it's  war." 

"  Can't  you  see  that  we've  got  to  finish  with  war? 
If  we've  got  to  begin  again  some  day,  all  that's  been 
done  is  no  good.  Look  at  it  there  ! — and  it  would  be 
in  vain.  It  would  be  two  or  three  years  or  more  of 
wasted  catastrophe. 

****** 

"  Ah,  my  boy,  if  all  we've  gone  through  wasn't  the 
end  of  this  great  calamity  !  I  value  my  life ;  I've  got 
my  wife,  my  family,  my  home  around  them;  I've  got 


334  UNDER  FIRE 

schemes  for  my  life  afterwards,  mind  you.  Well,  all  the 
same,  if  this  wasn't  the  end  of  it,  I'd  rather  die." 

"  I'm  going  to  die."  The  echo  came  at  that  moment 
exactly  from  Paradis'  neighbour,  who  no  doubt  had 
examined  the  wound  in  his  belly.  "  I'm  sorry  on 
account  of  my  children." 

"  It's  on  account  of  my  children  that  I'm  not  sorry," 
came  a  murmur  from  somewhere  else.  "  I'm  dying,  so 
I  know  what  I'm  saying,  and  I  say  to  myself,  '  They'll 
have  peace.' ' 

"  Perhaps  I  shan't  die,"  said  another,  with  a  quiver 
of  hope  that  he  could  not  restrain  even  in  the  presence  of 
the  doomed,  "  but  I  shall  suffer.  Well,  I  say  '  more's  the 
pity,'  and  I  even  say  '  that's  all  right ' ;  and  I  shall  know 
how  to  stick  more  suffering  if  I  know  it's  for  something." 

"  Then  we'll  have  to  go  on  fighting  after  the  war?  " 

"  Yes,  p'raps " 

"  You  want  more  of  it,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  because  I  want  no  more  of  it,"  the  voice  grunted. 

"  And  p'raps  it'll  not  be  foreigners  that  we've  got  to 
fight?" 

"  P'raps,  yes " 

A  still  more  violent  blast  of  wind  shut  our  eyes  and 
choked  us.  When  it  had  passed,  and  we  saw  the 
volley  take  flight  across  the  plain,  seizing  and  shaking 
its  muddy  plunder  and  furrowing  the  water  in  the  long 
gaping  trenches — long  as  the  grave  of  an  army — we 
began  again. 

"  After  all,  what  is  it  that  makes  the  mass  and  the 
horror  of  war?  " 

"  It's  the  mass  of  the  people." 

"  But  the  people— that's  us  !  " 

He  who  had  said  it  looked  at  me  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,"  I  said  to  him,  "  yes,  old  boy,  that's  true  ! 
It's  with  us  only  that  they  make  battles.  It  is  we  who 
are  the  material  of  war.  War  is  made  up  of  the  flesh 
and  the  souls  of  common  soldiers  only.  It  is  we  who 
make  the  plains  of  dead  and  the  rivers  of  blood,  all  of 
us,  and  each  of  us  is  invisible  and  silent  because  of  the 


THE   DAWN  335 

immensity  of  our  numbers.  The  emptied  towns  and 
the  villages  destroyed,  they  are  a  wilderness  of  our 
making.  Yes,  war  is  all  of  us,  and  all  of  us  together." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  It's  the  people  who  are  war; 
without  them,  there  would  be  nothing,  nothing  but  some 
wrangling,  a  long  way  off.  But  it  isn't  they  who  decide 
on  it ;  it's  the  masters  who  steer  them." 

"  The  people  are  struggling  to-day  to  have  no  more 
masters  that  steer  them.  This  war,  it's  like  the  French 
Revolution  continuing." 

"  Well  then.,  if  that's  so,  we're  working  for  the 
Prussians  too  ?  " 

"  It's  to  be  hoped  so,"  said  one  of  the  wretches  of  the 
plain. 

"Oh,  hell !  "  said  the  chasseur,  grinding  his  teeth. 
But  he  shook  his  head  and  added  no  more. 

"  We  want  to  look  after  ourselves  !  You  shouldn't 
meddle  in  other  people's  business,"  mumbled  the 
obstinate  snarler. 

"  Yes,  you  should  !  Because  what  you  call  '  other 
people,'  that's  just  what  they're  not — they're  the  same  !  " 

"  Why  is  it  always  us  that  has  to  march  away  for 
everybody?  " 

"  That's  it !  "  said  a  man,  and  he  repeated  the  words 
he  had  used  a  moment  before.  "  More's  the  pity,  or 
so  much  the  better." 

"  The  people — they're  nothing,  though  they  ought 
to  be  everything,"  then  said  the  man  who  had  questioned 
me,  recalling,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  an  historic 
sentence  of  more  than  a  century  ago,  but  investing  it 
at  last  with  its  great  universal  significance.  Escaped 
from  torment,  on  all  fours  in  the  deep  grease  of  the 
ground,  he  lifted  his  leper-like  face  and  looked  hungrily 
before  him  into  infinity. 

He  looked  and  looked.  He  was  trying  to  open  the 
gates  of  heaven. 

****** 

"  The  peoples  of  the  world  ought  to  come  to  an 
understanding,  through  the  hides  and  on  the  bodies  of 


336  UNDER  FIRE 

those  who  exploit  them  one  way  or  another.  All  the 
masses  ought  to  agree  together." 

"  All  men  ought  to  be  equal." 

The  word  seems  to  come  to  us  like  a  rescue. 

"  Equal — yes — yes — there  are  some  great  meanings 
for  justice  and  truth.  There  are  some  things  one 
believes  in,  that  one  turns  to  and  clings  to  as  if  they  were 
a  sort  of  light.  There's  equality,  above  all." 

"  There's  liberty  and  fraternity,  too." 

"  But  principally  equality  !  " 

I  tell  them  that  fraternity  is  a  dream,  an  obscure 
and  uncertain  sentiment;  that  while  it  is  unnatural 
for  a  man  to  hate  one  whom  he  does  not  know,  it  is 
equally  unnatural  to  love  him.  You  can  build  nothing 
on  fraternity.  Nor  on  liberty,  either ;  it  is  too  relative 
a  thing  in  a  society  where  all  the  elements  subdivide 
each  other  by  force. 

But  equality  is  always  the  same.  Liberty  and 
fraternity  are  words  while  equality  is  a  fact.  Equality 
should  be  the  great  human  formula — social  equality, 
for  while  individuals  have  varying  values,  each  must 
have  an  equal  share  in  the  social  life ;  and  that  is  only 
just,  because  the  life  of  one  human  being  is  equal  to  the 
life  of  another.  That  formula  is  of  prodigious  importance . 
The  principle  of  the  equal  rights  of  every  living  being  and 
the  sacred  will  of  the  majority  is  infallible  and  must  be 
invincible;  all  progress  will  be  brought  about  by  it, 
all,  with  a  force  truly  divine.  It  will  bring  first  the 
smooth  bed-rock  of  all  progress — the  settling  of  quarrels 
by  that  justice  which  is  exactly  the  same  thing  as  the 
general  advantage. 

And  these  men  of  the  people,  dimly  seeing  some 
unknown  Revolution  greater  than  the  other,  a  revolu- 
tion springing  from  themselves  and  already  rising, 
rising  in  their  throats,  repeat  "  Equality  !  " 

It  seems  as  if  they  were  spelling  the  word  and  then 
reading  it  distinctly  on  all  sides — that  there  is  not  upon 
the  earth  any  privilege,  prejudice  or  injustice  that  does 
not  collapse  in  contact  with  it.  It  is  an  answer  to  all, 


THE  DAWN  337 

a  word  of  sublimity.  They  revolve  the  idea  over  and 
over,  and  find  a  kind  of  perfection  in  it.  They  see  errors 
and  abuses  burning  in  a  brilliant  light. 

"  That  would  be  fine  !  "  said  one. 

'*  Too  fine  to  be  true  !  "  said  another. 

But  the  third  said,  "  It's  because  it's  true  that  it's 
fine.  It  has  no  other  beauty,  mind  !  And  it's  not 
because  it's  fine  that  it  will  come.  Fineness  is  not  in 
vogue,  any  more  than  love  is.  It's  because  it's  true  that 
it  has  to  be." 

"  Then,  since  justice  is  wanted  by  the  people,  and  the 
people  have  the  power,  let  them  do  it." 

"  They're  beginning  already  !  "  said  some  obscure 
lips. 

"  It's  the  way  things  are  running,"  declared  another. 

"  When  all  men  have  made  themselves  equal,  we 
shall  be  forced  to  unite." 

"  And  there'll  no  longer  be  appalling  things  done 
in  the  face  of  heaven  by  thirty  million  men  who  don't 
wish  them." 

It  is  true,  and  there  is  nothing  to  reply  to  it.  What 
pretended  argument  or  shadow  of  an  answer  dare  one 
oppose  to  it — "  There'll  no  longer  be  the  things  done 
in  the  face  of  heaven  by  thirty  millions  of  men  who  don't 
want  to  do  them  !  " 

Such  is  the  logic  that  I  hear  and  follow  of  the  words 
spoken  by  these  pitiful  fellows  cast  upon  the  field  of 
affliction,  the  •  words  which  spring  from  their  bruises 
and  pains,  the  words  which  bleed  from  them. 

Now,  the  sky  is  all  overcast.  Low  down  it  is  armoured 
in  steely  blue  by  great  clouds.  Above,  in  a  weakly 
luminous  silvering,  it  is  crossed  by  enormous  sweepings 
of  wet  mist.  The  weather  is  worsening,  and  more  rain 
on  the  way.  The  end  of  the  tempest  and  the  long 
trouble  is  not  yet. 

"  We  shall  say  to  ourselves,"  says  one,  "  '  After  all, 

why  do  we  make  war  ?  '     We  don't  know  at  all  why, 

but  we  can  say  who  we  make  it  for.     We  shall  be  forced 

to  see  that  if  every  nation  every  day  brings  the  fresh 

z 


338  UNDER   FIRE 

bodies  of  fifteen  hundred  young  men  to  the  God  of  War 
to  be  lacerated,  it's  for  the  pleasure  of  a  few  ringleaders 
that  we  could  easily  count ;  that  if  whole  nations  go  to 
slaughter  marshalled  in  armies  in  order  that  the  gold- 
striped  caste  may  write  their  princely  names  in  history, 
so  that  other  gilded  people  of  the  same  rank  can  contrive 
more  business,  and  expand  in  the  way  of  employees 
and  shops — and  we  shall  see,  as  soon  as  we  open  our 
eyes,  that  the  divisions  between  mankind  are  not 
what  we  thought,  and  those  one  did  believe  in  are  not 
divisions." 

"  Listen  !  "  some  one  broke  in  suddenly. 

We  hold  our  peace,  and  hear  afar  the  sound  of  guns. 
Yonder,  the  growling  is  agitating  the  grey  strata  of  the 
sky,  and  the  distant  violence  breaks  feebly  on  our 
buried  ears.  Ah1  around  us,  the  waters  continue  to 
sap  the  earth  and  by  degrees  to  ensnare  its  heights. 

"  It's  beginning  again." 

Then  one  of  us  says,  "  Ah,  look  what  we've  got 
against  us  !  " 

Already  there  is  uneasy  hesitation  in  these  castaways' 
discussion  of  their  tragedy,  in  the  huge  masterpiece  of 
destiny  that  they  are  roughly  sketching.  It  is  not  only 
the  peril  and  pain,  the  misery  of  the  moment,  whose 
endless  beginning  they  see  again.  It  is  the  enmity  of 
circumstances  and  people  against  the  truth,  the  accumu- 
lation of  privilege  and  ignorance,  of  deafness  and  un- 
willingness, the  taken  sides,  the  savage  conditions 
accepted,  the  immovable  masses,  the  tangled  lines. 

And  the  dream  of  fumbling  thought  is  continued  in 
another  vision,  in  which  everlasting  enemies  emerge 
from  the  shadows  of  the  past  and  stand  forth  in  the 
stormy  darkness  of  to-day. 

****** 

Here  they  are.  We  seem  to  see  them  silhouetted 
against  the  sky,  above  the  crests  of  the  storm  that 
beglooms  the  world — a  cavalcade  of  warriors,  prancing 
and  flashing,  the  chargers  that  carry  armour  and  plumes 
and  gold  ornament,  crowns  and  swords.  They  are 


THE  DAWN  339 

burdened  with  weapons;  they  send  forth  gleams  of 
light;  magnificent  they  roll.  The  antiquated  move- 
ments of  the  warlike  ride  divide  the  clouds  like  the 
painted  fierceness  of  a  theatrical  scene. 

And  far  above  the  fevered  gaze  of  them  who  are 
upon  the  ground,  whose  bodies  are  layered  with  the 
dregs  of  the  earth  and  the  wasted  fields,  the  phantom 
cohort  flows  from  the  four  corners  of  the  horizon,  drives 
back  the  sky's  infinity  and  hides  its  blue  deeps. 

And  they  are  legion.  They  are  not  only  the  warrior 
caste  who  shout  as  they  fight  and  have  joy  of  it,  not  only 
those  whom  universal  slavery  has  clothed  in  magic 
power,  the  mighty  by  birth,  who  tower  here  and  there 
above  the  prostration  of  the  human  race  and  will  take 
their  sudden  stand  by  the  scales  of  justice  when  they 
think  they  see  great  profit  to  gain ;  not  only  these,  but 
whole  multitudes  who  minister  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously to  their  fearful  privilege. 

"  There  are  those  who  say/'  now  cries  one  of  the 
sombre  and  compelling  talkers,  extending  his  hand  as 
though  he  could  see  the  pageant,  "  there  are  those  who 
say,  '  How  fine  they  are  !  ' 

"  And  those  who  say, '  The  nations  hate  each  other  ! ' 

"  And  those  who  say,  '  I  get  fat  on  war,  and  my  belly 
matures  on  it ! ' 

"  And  those  who  say,  'There  has  always  been  war, 
so  there  always  will  be  ! ' 

"  There  are  those  who  say,  '  I  can't  see  farther  than 
the  end  of  my  nose,  and  I  forbid  others  to  see  farther  !  ' 

"  There  are  those  who  say,  '  Babies  come  into  the 
world  with  either  red  or  blue  breeches  on  ! ' 

"  There  are  those,"  growled  a  hoarse  voice,  "  who 
say,  '  Bow  your  head  and  trust  in  God  ! ' 

****** 

Ah,  you  are  right,  poor  countless  workmen  of  the 
battles,  you  who  have  made  with  your  hands  all  of  the 
Great  War,  you  whose  omnipotence  is  not  yet  used  for 
well-doing,  you  human  host  whose  every  face  is  a  world 
of  sorrows,  you  who  dream  bowed  under  the  yoke  of 


340  UNDER  FIRE 

a  thought  beneath  that  sky  where  long  black  clouds 
rend  themselves  and  expand  in  dishevelled  lengths  like 
evil  angels — yes,  you  are  right.  There  are  all  those 
things  against  you.  Against  you  and  your  great  common 
interests  which  as  you  dimly  saw  are  the  same  thing  in 
effect  as  justice,  there  are  not  only  the  sword-wavers, 
the  profiteers,  and  the  intriguers. 

There  is  not  only  the  prodigious  opposition  of  interested 
parties — financiers,  speculators  great  and  small,  armour- 
plated  in  their  banks  and  houses,  who  live  on  war  and 
live  in  peace  during  war,  with  their  brows  stubbornly 
set  upon  a  secret  doctrine  and  their  faces  shut  up  like 
safes. 

There  are  those  who  admire  the  exchange  of  flashing 
blows,  who  hail  like  women  the  bright  colours  of  uni- 
forms ;  those  whom  military  music  and  the  martial 
ballads  poured  upon  the  public  intoxicate  as  with  brandy ; 
the  dizzy-brained,  the  feeble-minded,  the  superstitious, 
the  savages. 

There  are  those  who  bury  themselves  in  the  past,  on 
whose  lips  are  the  sayings  only  of  bygone  days,  the 
traditionalists  for  whom  an  injustice  has  legal  force 
because  it  is  perpetuated,  who  aspire  to  be  guided  by  the 
dead,  who  strive  to  subordinate  progress  and  the  future 
and  all  their  palpitating  passion  to  the  realm  of  ghosts 
and  nursery-tales. 

With  them  are  all  the  parsons,  who  seek  to  excite 
you  and  to  lull  you  to  sleep  with  the  morphine  of  their 
Paradise,  so  that  nothing  may  change.  There  are  the 
lawyers,  the  economists,  the  historians — and  how  many 
more? — who  befog  you  with  the  rigmarole  of  theory, 
who  declare  the  inter-antagonism  of  nationalities  at  a 
time  when  theTonly  unity  possessed  by  each  nation  of 
to-day  is  in  the  arbitrary  map-made  lines  of  her  frontiers, 
while  she  is  inhabited  by  an  artificial  amalgam  of  races ; 
there  are  the  worm-eaten  genealogists,  who  forge  for  the 
ambitious  of  conquest  and  plunder  false  certificates  of 
philosophy  and  imaginary  titles  of  nobility.  The 
infirmity  of  human  intelligence  is  short  sight.  In  too 


THE  DAWN  341 

many  cases,  the  wiseacres  are  dunces  of  a  sort,  who 
lose  sight  of  the  simplicity  of  things,  and  stifle  and 
obscure  it  with  formulae  and  trivialities.  It  is  the 
small  things  that  one  learns  from  books,  not  the  great 
ones. 

And  even  while  they  are  saying  that  they  do  not  wish 
for  war  they  are  doing  all  they  can  to  perpetuate  it. 
They  nourish  national  vanity  and  the  love  of  supremacy 
by  force.  "  We  alone,"  they  say,  each  behind  his 
shelter,  "  we  alone  are  the  guardians  of  courage  and 
loyalty,  of  ability  and  good  taste  !  "  Out  of  the  great- 
ness and  richness  of  a  country  they  make  something 
like  a  consuming  disease.  Out  of  patriotism — which 
can  be  respected  as  long  as  it  remains  in  the  domain  of 
sentiment  and  art  on  exactly  the  same  footing  as  the 
sense  of  family  and  local  pride,  all  equally  sacred — out 
of  patriotism  they  make  a  Utopian  and  impracticable 
idea,  unbalancing  the  world,  a  sort  of  cancer  which  drains 
all  the  living  force,  spreads  everywhere  and  crushes  life, 
a  contagious  cancer  which  culminates  either  in  the 
crash  of  war  or  in  the  exhaustion  and  suffocation  of 
armed  peace. 

They  pervert  the  most  admirable  of  moral  principles. 
How  many  are  the  crimes  of  which  they  have  made 
virtues  merely  by  dowering  them  with  the  word 
"  national  "  ?  They  distort  even  truth  itself.  For  the 
truth  which  is  eternally  the  same  they  substitute  each 
their  national  truth.  So  many  nations,  so  many  truths ; 
and  thus  they  falsify  and  twist  the  truth. 

Those  are  your  enemies.  All  those  people  whose 
childish  and  odiously  ridiculous  disputes  you  hear 
snarling  above  you — "  It  wasn't  me  that  began,  it  was 
you  !  "-— "  No,  it  wasn't  me,  it  was  you  !  " — "  Hit  me 
then  !  " — "  No,  you  hit  me  I  " — those  puerilities  that 
perpetuate  the  world's  huge  wound,  for  the  disputants 
are  not  the  people  truly  concerned,  but  quite  the  con- 
trary, nor  do  they  desire  to  have  done  with  it ;  all  those 
people  who  cannot  or  will  not  make  peace  on  earth; 
all  those  who  for  one  reason  or  another  cling  to  the 


342  UNDER  FIRE 

ancient  state  of  things  and  find  or  invent  excuses  for  it — 
They  are  your  enemies  ! 

They  are  your  enemies  as  much  as  those  German 
soldiers  are  to-day  who  are  prostrate  here  between  you 
in  the  mud,  who  are  only  poor  dupes  hatefully  deceived 
and  brutalised,  domestic  beasts.  They  are  your  enemies, 
wherever  they  were  born,  however  they  pronounce  their 
names,  whatever  the  language  in  which  they  he.  Look 
at  them,  in  the  heaven  and  on  the  earth.  Look  at  them, 
everywhere  !  Identify  them  once  for  all,  and  be  mindful 

for  ever  ! 

****** 

"  They  will  say  to  you,"  growled  a  kneeling  man  who 
stooped  with  his  two  hands  in  the  earth  and  shook  his 
shoulders  like  a  mastiff,  '  My  friend,  you  have  been  a 
wonderful  hero  ! '  I  don't  want  them  to  say  it  ! 

' '  Heroes  ?  Some  sort  of  extraordinary  being  ?  Idols  ? 
Rot !  We've  been  murderers.  We  have  respectably 
followed  the  trade  of  hangmen.  We  shall  do  it  again 
with  all  our  might,  because  it's  of  great  importance  to 
follow  that  trade,  so  as  to  punish  war  and  smother  it. 
The  act  of  slaughter  is  always  ignoble;  sometimes 
necessary,  but  always  ignoble.  Yes,  hard  and  persistent 
murderers,  that's  what  we've  been.  But  don't  talk  to 
me  about  military  virtue  because  I've  killed  Germans." 

"  Nor  to  me,"  cried  another  in  so  loud  a  voice  that 
no  one  could  have  replied  to  him  even  had  he  dared; 
"  nor  to  me,  because  I've  saved  the  lives  of  Frenchmen  ! 
Why,  we  might  as  well  set  fire  to  houses  for  the  sake  of 
the  excellence  of  life-saving  1  " 

"  It  would  be  a  crime  to  exhibit  the  fine  side  of  war, 
even  if  there  were  one  !  "  murmured  one  of  the  sombre 
soldiers. 

The  first  man  continued.  "  They'll  say  those  things 
to  us  by  way  of  paying  us  with  glory,  and  to  pay  them- 
selves, too,  for  what  they  haven't  done.  But  military 
glory — it  isn't  even  true  for  us  common  soldiers.  It's 
for  some,  but  outside  those  elect  the  soldier's  glory  is  a 
lie,  like  every  other  fine-looking  thing  in  war.  In  reality, 


THE  DAWN  343 

the  soldier's  sacrifice  is  obscurely  concealed.  The  multi- 
tudes that  make  up  the  waves  of  attack  have  no  reward. 
They  run  to  hurl  themselves  into  a  frightful  inglorious 
nothing.  You  cannot  even  heap  up  their  names,  their 
poor  little  names  of  nobodies." 

"  To  hell  with  it  all,"  replies  a  man,  "  we've  got  other 
things  to  think  about." 

"  But  all  that,"  hiccupped  a  face  which  the  mud 
concealed  like  a  hideous  hand,  "  may  you  even  say  it  ? 
You'd  be  cursed,  and  '  shot  at  dawn  '  !  They've  made 
around  a  Marshal's  plumes  a  religion  as  bad  and  stupid 
and  malignant  as  the  other  !  " 

The  man  raised  himself,  fell  down,  and  rose  again. 
The  wound  that  he  had  under  his  armour  of  filth  was 
staining  the  ground,  and  when  he  had  spoken,  his  wide- 
open  eyes  looked  down  at  all  the  blood  he  had  given  for 
the  healing  of  the  world. 

****** 

The  others,  one  by  one,  straighten  themselves.  The 
storm  is  falling  more  heavily  on  the  expanse  of  flayed 
and  martyred  fields.  The  day  is  full  of  night.  It  is  as 
if  new  enemy  shapes  of  men  and  groups  of  men  are  rising 
unceasingly  on  the  crest  of  the  mountain -chain  of  clouds, 
round  about  the  barbaric  outlines  of  crosses,  eagles, 
churches,  royal  and  military  palaces  and  temples.  They 
seem  to  multiply  there,  shutting  out  the  stars  that  are 
fewer  than  mankind ;  it  seems  even  as  if  these  apparitions 
are  moving  in  all  directions  in  the  excavated  ground, 
here,  there,  among  the  real  beings  who  are  thrown  there 
at  random,  half  buried  in  the  earth  like  grains  of  corn. 

My  still  living  companions  have  at  last  got  up. 
Standing  with  difficulty  on  the  foundered  soil,  enclosed 
in  their  bemired  garb,  laid  out  in  strange  upright  coffins 
of  mud,  raising  their  huge  simplicity  out  of  the  earth's 
depths — a  profundity  like  that  of  ignorance — they  move 
and  cry  out,  with  their  gaze,  their  arms  and  their  fists 
extended  towards  the  sky  whence  fall  daylight  and  storm. 
They  are  struggling  against  victorious  spectres,  like  the 
Cyranos  and  Don  Quixotes  that  they  still  are. 


344  UNDER  FIRE 

One  sees  their  shadows  stirring  on  the  shining  sad 
expanse  of  the  plain,  and  reflected  in  the  pallid  stagnant 
surface  of  the  old  trenches,  which  now  only  the  infinite 
void  of  space  inhabits  and  purifies,  in  the  centre  of  a 
polar  desert  whose  horizons  fume. 

But  their  eyes  are  opened.  They  are  beginning  to 
make  out  the  boundless  simplicity  of  things.  And 
Truth  not  only  invests  them  with  a  dawn  of  hope,  but 
raises  on  it  a  renewal  of  strength  and  courage. 

"  That's  enough  talk  about  those  others  !  "  one  of 
the  men  commanded;  "  all  the  worse  for  them  ! — Us  ! 
Us  all ! "  The  understanding  between  democracies, 
the  entente  among  the  multitudes,  the  uplifting  of  the 
people  of  the  world,  the  bluntly  simple  faith  !  All  the 
rest,  aye,  all  the  rest,  in  the  past,  the  present  and  the 
future,  matters  nothing  at  all. 

And  a  soldier  ventures  to  add  this  sentence,  though  he 
begins  it  with  lowered  voice,  "  If  the  present  war  has 
advanced  progress  by  one  step,  its  miseries  and  slaughter 
will  count  for  little." 

And  while  we  get  ready  to  rejoin  the  others  and  begin 
war  again,  the  dark  and  storm-choked  sky  slowly  opens 
above  our  heads.  Between  two  masses  of  gloomy  cloud 
a  tranquil  gleam  emerges;  and  that  line  of  light,  so 
black-edged  and  beset,  brings  even  so  its  proof  that  the 
sun  is  there. 


THE   END 


PRINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN  BY  RICHARD  CLAY  &  sows,  LIMITIB, 

BRUNSWICK  ST.,  STAMFORB  ST.,  S.E.,  AND   BUN3AY,  SUFFOLK. 


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